


The White (Christmas) Lie

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas With Family, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Shower Sex, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, kissing under the mistletoe, not season 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17011716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: Sherlock's parents believe that John and Sherlock are dating (again) now that Sherlock is back from the dead and John and Mary are divorced. John agrees to play along so that Sherlock's parents aren't let down, what could possibly go wrong?Basically what it says on the tin: Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, and Love Confessions.P.S. This has been sitting on my desk top for over two years, thus it is not series 4 compliant and I didn't have the energy to rewrite it to make it that way. :) Enjoy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Here's a little work that's been sitting for way too long waiting for m to post it, so I thought I'd finally get around to it now. It's written in it's entirety and I will try to have the whole thing up within the next few days or so.
> 
> Comments are always welcome and appreciated. (For those reading the December Challenge fics I'm also writing right now, more of those are coming soon, too- Grad school is kicking my bum.)

Mycroft's visits are never particularly pleasant. Just once, John wishes that Mycroft would stop by just to have a chat and a cuppa. Just once he would like to see Mycroft come to their flat and not piss off his best friend.

Today, is not that day. John's been sitting in his chair, thinking about Sherlock, thinking about how much softer he's been since coming back from the dead and wondering. Wondering if perhaps Sherlock knows the way that John feels about him. The way Sherlock stares at him when he thinks John isn't looking, suggest he might. So would the soft, almost affectionate smiles he gives John and John alone. But John's been known to read love into a situation when it wasn't there, and if there is one person he doesn't want to be wrong with, it's Sherlock.

These are the thoughts, which seem to be his only thoughts lately, interrupted when Mycroft comes in. They all stand in the living room awkwardly silent for several moments before John says, “Right, I’ll just go make us some tea, shall I?”

Off he pops into the kitchen to make some tea, trying to eavesdrop as best he can, since whatever they are talking about clearly has to do with him to some degree. 

He hears Sherlock snap, “Absolutely not. It’s out of the question. Are you out of your mind?”

Mycroft either responds softly enough that John can’t hear him, or he doesn't respond with words.

“I don’t care what kind of a deal you think we made, there is no favor large enough in the world to get me to do this,” Sherlock spits out at him.

John feels the pit of his stomach drop, what could Mycroft possibly be asking? His blood starts to heat up and his chest starts to puff, feeling very defensive of Sherlock. He piles the tea cups and pot onto the tray and carries it into the living room.

“Right,” John says firmly, looking between his mad genius sitting in his chair with arms and legs crossed, glowering at Mycroft who sits in John's chair, staring placidly back. He plunks the tea tray down in front of Mycroft, “What’s going on?”

He hands the cup of tea he’d made for Sherlock to him and sits down on the arm of Sherlock’s chair since Mycroft is in his.

“Well, you see-” Mycroft starts before Sherlock can cut him off.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snarls viciously, and John looks over at him in surprise, Sherlock’s brows are furrowed and his eyes are narrowed at his brother with as much vehemence as he can seemingly muster. John hasn’t, in fact, ever seen Sherlock this angry with his brother. “You keep your fatty, pompous mouth shut.”

John turns on the armrest to look down at the other man, raising an eyebrow but not saying a word. He’d learned long ago how to best approach Sherlock when he is this agitated, and this level of irritation usually involves ensuring his violin is near and the gun is safely out of reach.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a few more glares, and eyebrow twitches, adding in a few huffs of breath for good measure; communicating as surely as if they were using actual words. John sips his tea, waiting as patiently as he can for Mycroft to leave.

He doesn’t need to wait long, after a moment Mycroft rises from John’s chair without touching the tea John had made. “Well, I must be off, I’m afraid. I’ve a mountain of work to do. The car will be waiting outside for the two of you in forty five minutes. Good day.”

Sherlock glares after him and John sighs at the wasted effort of making Mycroft tea. “Well,” John says as he stands up, hoping it might prompt Sherlock into speaking. Sherlock however seems quite reticent to give up his glaring, so John plunks himself down into the chair Mycroft recently vacated and takes a sip of his tea. “Would you like to tell me what we’re upset about?” John asks.

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirk up in amusement and an eyebrow arches delicately at John, “We?” he murmurs as his eyes traced over John’s face as though he were seeing him for the first time all over again.

A shudder traces its way up the back of his neck, he crosses his legs and shrugs before taking another sip of his tea.

Sherlock brings both index fingers to his lips and taps them together as he stares at John.

John clears his throat, “I know that look.”

"We're expected at my parent's house for Christmas Eve."

"But that's today," John says dumbly.

"Hence my irritation," Sherlock grumbles back. "Mycroft knew you wouldn't have Rosie for Christmas and apparently scheduled our appearance. I owe him a favor."

"Well, I'd best go pack then," John replies, not entirely seeing why visiting his parents is a challenging thing for Sherlock. "You had, too."

Sherlock looks up at him, narrowing his eyes and scowling, _"We're_ supposed to be irritated, remember?"

John chuckles, "Oh, come on. I like your parents and Mary has Rosie for Christmas, Mrs. Hudson is away. What else were we going to do besides sit here all day and mope?"

Sherlock groans and John walks over to his chair, "Come on. Up and Adam," he cajoles. "You can tell me about whatever else is bothering you on the way to your parents." 

Sherlock grasps John's outstretched hands and allows John's to put him from the chair and onto his feet. "How do you know there's something else?" Sherlock asks suspiciously. 

John shrugs, "I know you, Sherlock."

They head to their rooms and pack quickly, leaving shortly thereafter and climbing into the comfortable car Mycroft had left.

Sherock crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the city passing them by. 

"So," John asks briskly, "Are you going to tell me the other part now?" 

Sherlock sighs, "Now, John-" he starts.

"Oh, dear," John says taking a steadying breath, "That really doesn't sound good."

"I haven't said anything yet!" Sherlock exclaims, "I've only said your name."

"Yes," John affirms, "But it's not so much what you said as how you said it. Any time you say my name that way I know you're going to tell me something that will send my blood pressure through the roof. Remember that time you'd left maggots in the refrigerator and they got into absolutely everything? Or that time you left a severed hand in the microwave for a week and we had to buy a new one because we couldn't get the stench out? Or when you took apart the telly because you were bored and could quite get all of the pieces to fit back together? And then there was the incident with my favorite blue jumper-"

Sherlock clears his throat interrupting John's reminiscing, "Yes, yes," he says impatiently. "Perhaps we could move passed those things, I _have_ apologized."

"I'm just saying, there's a particular tone of voice you exhibit right before my world implodes," he replies reasonably.

"Perhaps we could remember some of the reasons you're actually rather fond of me," Sherlock says with a sham of a smile. "None of the least of which being you're a bit unhinged."

John laughs at that, "I don't think insulting me is the way to remind me of my fondness for you."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and hums as though he rather disagrees.

“It’s not!” John says, a laugh bubbling out of his chest at the hopeless genius next to him, whom he happens to be exceptionally fond of and needs no reminding of this fact.

“But you’re laughing,” Sherlock persists. “And you’re posture is always more open and receptive when I insult you. I’ve hypothesized that it might be due to your time in the military. It’s what cohorts do there, insult one another and then turn around and save each other’s lives.”

It's John’s turn to cock his head at Sherlock, “I’m not sure that’s why. But back to the task at hand, why am I going to be upset?”

“Now, John-” Sherlock begins again and John raises an eyebrow at him. Sherlock huffs and continues, “You must understand-”

But whatever it is that Sherlock thinks John has to understand is put on hold when Sherlock’s mobile rings. He looks down at it in surprise then back up at John almost as though he's asking permission.

“Oh, go on then,” John tells him, ignoring the stab of curiosity about what it was that Sherlock thought was going to have him so riled up.

Sherlock proceeds to answer the phone and solve a case for Lestrade via text and email over the course of the next half an hour. John watches, fascinated for the thousandth time by the way Sherlock’s mind works. When he finishes, he grins at John and holds up the phone, “See, child’s play.”

“Yes,” John agrees, “Brilliant as ever.”

They pull up outside the house a moment later, “Well?” John says, “Anything I absolutely need to know before we go inside?”

John watches as Sherlock’s face pales, the glow and joy of solving a case fading as soon as he recognizes where they are. “It’s just-” he starts.

But Mrs. Holmes is already at the door, pulling it open and tugging Sherlock out. Sherlock looks at John, looking positively panic-stricken.

“It’s fine,” John assures him as Sherlock unfolds himself from the backseat and into his mother’s waiting arms. “It’s all fine,” he mutters under his breath.

“Mrs. Holmes!” John says once he's out of the car and being pulled into a hug as well. “It’s lovely to see you. Please forgive my lack of a hostess gift, I wasn’t aware we’d be here until about an hour ago. I do hope your presents arrived earlier this week?” he asks, suddenly profoundly glad that he’d taken Sherlock shopping with him to buy gifts for everyone and Sherlock had insisted on signing both of their names even on the things to people that should have just been from himself.

“We did!” she trills. “They’re under the tree, we were hoping you’d be able to join us, of course. Well, let’s go inside. There’s no sense in keeping the two of you out here to catch cold.”

Once inside the house, they have a perfectly lovely chat over tea and biscuits; John tells them about his work at the clinic and some recent anecdotes with Sherlock’s cases. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes tell them about all of the renovations they had been working on as of late in the house. Sherlock is oddly quiet, even when John is talking about him and teasing him.

When Mrs. Holmes goes to fetch something from the cupboard and Mr. Holmes turns to remind her of something, John reaches over and puts his hand and Sherlock’s shoulder to draw his attention. “Alright?” John asks softly.

Sherlock nods, but looks anything but alright.

“Well,” Mrs. Holmes says a moment later, drawing John’s attention back away from Sherlock, “You two must be tired from that trip and that case last night. Why don’t you head on up to your room and take a quick nap and freshen up. Alfie and I will get started on supper. How does seven sound? Myc should be here by then.”

“Oh, that’s not really necessary,” John says. “Is there some way I can help with preparations?”

After much debate she finally succeeds in shooing them from her kitchen. “Should I just use the room I was in when Mary and I were here last year?” John asks when no one is forthcoming with his room details.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she says with an indulgent smile. “You can stay in Sherlock’s room.”

“Where will Sherlock be staying?” John asks in confusion, looking between Sherlock’s parents and Sherlock himself. Sherlock looks as though he just wants the floor to open and swallow him up and as often as John had thought that perhaps he knew exactly what Sherlock had looked like as an angsty teenager; he was never as sure of it as he was in this moment.

“In the same room, of course,” she replies with a small chuckle. “We aren’t so old as all of that.”

“I...” John starts, but trails of when he glances at Sherlock and sees him looking so incredibly pitiful. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Well, thank you. We’ll just take a bit of a rest then.”

Sherlock bolts from the room, leaving John to grab both of their suitcases for them.

When he gets upstairs and goes into Sherlock’s room he finds it looks nearly identical to his room back at Baker Street. He's about to comment on this when Sherlock blurts out, “I never thought you were going to meet my parents.”

“Errm. Okay?” John says in confusion, sensing that they are perhaps getting to the thing Sherlock had been planning to tell him in the car.

“And it was really Mycroft’s idea all along, it's just completely unrealistic for our parents to ever think that Mycroft would ever find himself in a relationship. He’s completely and utterly rubbish when it comes to interpersonal relationships.” Sherlock pauses and glances away from John.

John bites his tongue and says nothing of the fact that Sherlock is also rather rubbish at ‘interpersonal relationships.’ “I’m still waiting for whatever it is that’s going to piss me off.”

“Right, well, my parents just desperately wanted one of us to be some semblance of _normal.”_ He sneers as he says the word as though it left a foul taste in his mouth and John can't help but smile at him. “And so Mycroft thought there couldn’t be any possible harm in telling them, and of course he’d told them before he’d discussed it with me. And then once they mentioned it to me, well, Mummy was simply overjoyed and I just couldn’t bear to disappoint her. It’s Mycroft that always disappoints her, not me.” Sherlock grumbles.

“For goodness sake, Sherlock. Spit it out, what on earth did Mycroft tell them that has you this wound up?”

Sherlock looks down at his hands that are twisting together in his lap. “We’reaship.” Sherlock mumbles under his breath.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch any of that. Something about a ship?” both of his eyebrows raise, “He told them I was a pirate, didn’t he?” John laughs, “He told me you’d wanted to be a pirate when you were a child, of course. Do we have to go and buy a ship to convince your parents I’m actually a pirate? Do actual pirates even exist anymore?” John wonders.

Sherlock sighs and rubs his hand over his forehead. “No, he didn’t tell my parents you were a pirate. And yes, they do still exist, although in a slightly different context than what my childhood self would have wanted to be.” Sherlock shakes his head, “I can’t believe he told you that.”

“Well, I’m glad we don’t have to buy a boat and that I don’t have to learn about boats and how to drive them.”

“You sail boats, John,” Sherlock says in exasperation.

“Right. Rudimentary mistake. Or should I say rudder-mentary mistake? Arrggh.” John can’t help giggling at himself. Thinking it was too bad they didn’t have to buy a boat, it could have made an interesting blog entry.

“John, if you could desist making terrible puns.”

“Right, sorry,” John says, schooling his features into something more serious.

“Mycroft told them we were in a relationship.” Sherlock grumbles.

“I’m sorry. He did what?” John asks, sure he’d misheard him.

“You heard me. You know I hate repeating myself,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So, in summary, Mycroft told your parents that we were dating because your parents wanted one of you to be normal and it couldn’t be him. And then you never bothered to correct him.”

“More or less.”

“You, Mr. Married-to-my-work, didn’t correct your parents’ misconception about our relationship.”

“No.”

“I thought you were asexual.” John muses.

“What? Why?”

John shrugs, “Because you told me women weren’t your area and when I asked about men you just told me you were flattered but you were married to your work. I’ve never seen you date anyone except Janine and that was a sham anyway.”

“No. I’m not asexual,” Sherlock says in exasperation. “I just don’t have the time nor the inclination for the useless pursuit of sexual pleasure. I mean, really John, look at the amount of time and energy you’ve expended on relationships even in the time I’ve known you.”

“Okay, so, you pretended to be in a relationship because your mother’s heart was set on one of her children having a relationship.”

“Right.” Sherlock confirms, wincing slightly.

John stares at him for a moment longer before he bursts out laughing.

Sherlock looks up at him, when he speaks again he sounds puzzled, “You’re laughing.”

John nods and wipes at the tears that have gathered in the corners of his eyes from laughing so hard. “Sherlock Holmes, the man who brought down an entire criminal network single-handedly, the man who jumped off a bloody roof without dying, who shot a man point blank in the head and was prepared to go into exile, is afraid of disappointing his mother.”

Sherlock sniffs, “I fail to see what’s amusing in that.”

“It’s just so incredibly ordinary.” John responds with another helpless chuckle.

“You’re remarkably calm about this.”

John shrugs, “Like you said, they weren’t ever going to meet me. Plenty of people thought we were a couple back in the old days, why should it matter if two more people with whom I had no interaction did? What’s the big deal?”

"As I said earlier, I owe Mycroft a favor.”

“So you want me to pretend that we used to date?”

“They think we’re still dating.” Sherlock corrects.

“What? How?” John asks. “We were at their house for Christmas last year with Mary, whom, in case you've forgotten, I was married to and was pregnant with my child at the time.”

“I’m aware of this.”

“Then how do they think we’re still dating? Mary and I have only been divorced for two months.” They’d tried, they truly had, but once John had found out that she’d been working with Moriarty and he’d been her target when Sherlock jumped, he hadn’t been able to trust her; it had been nearly impossible when she’d shot Sherlock. They’d had a fairly amicable divorce and they shared custody of their daughter, but John had moved back in with Sherlock after that.

Sherlock clears his throat, “They may or may not be under the impression that you got a divorce because of me.”

“What?” John spat.

“Well, he justified it by first telling them that you had truly thought I was dead. They were rather upset to find out you were getting married to a woman after I’d left to protect you and everyone else I hold dear.”

“I thought you were dead!” John shouts indignantly.

“As I said, Mycroft explained that, then told them that you’d already gotten engaged to Mary and impregnated her. You were doing the honorable thing and I understood that.”

“Then why are they suddenly okay with me divorcing Mary to be with you?”

“Ah, well, he also explained that Mary had been working for Moriarty and it was a tremendous strain on your relationship. That coupled with your devotion to me was just too much.” Sherlock says, as though it is the most reasonable thing in the world.

John rubs his hands over his face, “Let me get this straight. Mycroft told your parents we’re together and essentially told them everything about my divorce except for the fact that Mary shot you. Now we’re expected to go to family Christmas this year and pretend to be a couple.”

Sherlock blushes and looks down at his lap but gives a quick nod.

“I think Mycroft's been reading too many of those trashy paperback romance novels.” Sherlock snorts and John couldn’t help the small, pleased grin that slips into place on his lips. With a sigh, he continues, “I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life, Sherlock Holmes, but this has got to be the strangest.”

Sherlock looks up at him sharply, “So you’re going to do it?”

John shrugs, “If it’s what you want. I’m fond of your parents, I’d hate to see them disappointed on my account.”

“But you’re not gay.” Sherlock points out.

John bites his lip and looks out the window, “Strictly speaking, that’s true.”

“Major Sholto.” Sherlock says with a nod, “Mary had suggested as much.”

John shakes his head, “I’ll never understand the relationship the two of you had. What did she tell you?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Just that neither she nor I were the first person you’d loved.”

John splutters at the words, “I never told her I loved you.”

Sherlock looks down at his lap and John thinks he sees a tiny flash of sadness pass over Sherlock’s features before it clears and he looks back up at John. “Don’t worry, I hadn’t put any stock in what she’d said regardless. I’d thought she’d been mistaken about your relationship with Major Sholto, as well. You tend to form strong bonds with a select few individuals, like you had with me and with Mary; you’re an intensely loyal person once you’ve decided the person is worthy of you.” Sherlock swallows and he looks up into John’s eyes, “I will never entirely understand how you found me worthy of you,” he clears his throat and looks away once more. “But I’m glad you did.”

John stares at him in stunned silence for a moment. He's entirely unsure what he was meant to say to such a proclamation. He feels rather like he had when Sherlock gave the toast at his wedding, there are so many things that he’d never known Sherlock had felt for him. Come to think of it, there are so many things he’d never told Sherlock either.

Sherlock clears his throat, “Right,” he says, and the moment's disappeared and John internally curses his inability to articulate his thoughts in a timely manner. He was ever a coward where this brilliant man is concerned. “You should know that I am complete rubbish at this. I’ve been reliably informed by Janine and others that I simply don’t have what it takes to do these,” he gestures vaguely with his hands, “Things.”

John laughs, “That’s alright, I have more than enough experience for the both of us.” Sherlock still looks uncomfortable so he takes pity on him. “Look, it won’t be that hard. If there’s one thing I learned with Mary, it’s that the relationships that feel the best are the ones that are honest. When both of you are comfortable around one another and can just be yourselves, that’s when the relationship gets good. There’s a lot said for butterflies and the jitters but the good stuff is the everyday, mundane sort of things.”

“And that won’t be hard because....” Sherlock asks, trailing off in hopes that John will fill in the blanks.

“Because we’re already comfortable as an us.” John says with a shrug. “Because we’ve been a ‘we’ for so long that people forget that we weren’t always attached at the hip. You’re my best friend, Sherlock.” John says simply.

Sherlock nods slowly, he still doesn’t look terribly convinced. “Right, well maybe we should practice,” he suggests reasonably.

“What did you have in mind?” John asks, licking his lower lip. He tries to mentally calm himself down, this is undoubtedly difficult for Sherlock and he has to remain calm lest he end up snogging Sherlock’s brains out in his childhood bedroom, because he’s been wanting to do it for years.

“Ummm.” Sherlock flounders a bit, “I don’t know. What sorts of things do you think they’ll be expecting? You’re the one with practical experience in this field.”

“Well, you know how to sham a relationship.” John says. “I mean, you had Janine wrapped around your little finger and you left her to sleep by herself in your flat every night.”

“It was necessary to maintain my cover.” Sherlock says stubbornly.

“Right, well, you still faked a relationship well enough that she believed you might be getting engaged after only knowing one another for a few weeks. What did you do then?”

Sherlock looks away from John, “I...” he trails off before turning to look at John again, “I couldn’t do that with you.”

“Why not?” John asks, mildly affronted. He may not be as beautiful as Janine but he isn’t exactly hideous, either.

“Because it was a lie and I can’t do that to you. Besides, I calculated exactly what Janine wanted and I gave it to her. If I’m in a fake relationship with you for my parents’ sake am I supposed to be calculating what would make you fall in love with me or what they think our love would look like?”

John clears his throat, no need to calculate what would make him fall in love with Sherlock. He’d been nearly there for years. “Probably whatever will convince them that we’re a couple. I’m good with not falling in love with you.”

“That’s probably for the best anyway.” Sherlock says. “Picking the right traits for you to be in love with someone is no easy task. The women you’ve dated in my knowledge of you have been all over the board and always ultimately failed. And Mary, well, I don’t even know who exactly she was.”

“Right, can we stop dissecting my love life? What do we need to do for this to work?”

Sherlock bites his lip, “Maybe we can hold hands?” he ventures and John is charmed by the sweetness of that sentiment. “Or maybe we can just sit close to one another on the sofa? That was something you and your exes seemed to always do; sit together in small spaces.”

“Right. Come here,” John says, patting the bed beside him. Sherlock tentatively steps toward him, sitting down with a look of utmost concentration. “Relax,” John murmurs softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sherlock huffs, “I know that, John. There’s no need to coddle me.”

John doesn't say that it is in Sherlock’s very nature to need to be coddled on an almost daily basis. “I’m not coddling you,” John says reasonably. “Just trying to make you feel comfortable. Here,” he offers, holding out his hand to Sherlock. “Hold my hand.”

With a huff, Sherlock takes John’s hand in his the way a toddler would when they were being walked to the bathroom by an adult.

“No,” John corrects, “Here. Like this,” he interweaves their fingers, feeling a jump in the pit of his belly when their fingers slot together. Sherlock lets out a soft huff of air as though the feeling has taken him by surprise.

Sherlock’s fingers flutter in John’s as he seems to be trying to work out exactly how tightly he is meant to be holding John’s hand. “Just relax,” John says again, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers lightly in his. “If something doesn’t feel natural or feel right we just won’t do it, alright?”

Sherlock nods, “But how will you know if I don’t think something feels natural?”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll know,” John replies with a bit of a chuckle. Sherlock Holmes may be the most brilliant person that John has ever known but he knows Sherlock better than he knows himself.

“Maybe we should have a code word,” Sherlock muses, his body slumping naturally into John’s a bit as his brain squirreled off in the direction of making up secret codes.

John smiles, “Alright. What did you have in mind?”

“Mistletoe?”

John snorts, “As festive as that seems, it should probably be something that doesn’t sound strange coming up in casual conversation. Otherwise everyone will know something is strange.”

“Ah, good thinking, John.”

“Maybe something like turkey?”

“But what if we’re actually talking about turkey?” Sherlock questions.

“Context clues?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “No, that won’t work. How about we talk about a Christmas surprise? Since this was a surprise sprung on us, it seems logical. And we both know there’s no actual Christmas surprise.”

John shrugs, “Works for me.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, squaring his shoulders and giving a nod.

John yawns around the smile, giving Sherlock’s hand in his a little squeeze.

Sherlock looks over at him, “Are you actually tired?”

John shrugs, “A bit, we were up rather late working on that case.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock says.

“Since when do you apologize for keeping me up at all hours of the night?” John asks, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with his own.

“Since we’re in a fake relationship and that seems like the type of thing one is meant to apologize for.”

John chuckles, “Well, yes and no. Most often when my partners have apologized for keeping me up all night it’s been rather tongue-in-cheek and neither of us meant a word of it.”

Sherlock turns, his brow furrowing slightly, “What could have been pressing enough to keep you from sleeping with one of those insipid women? Half the time when I need you to stay up and work with me on an important case, you insist on getting four hours of sleep. It’s tedious.”

John laughs, he can’t help it; how was it possible for a man in his thirties to be this naive? He might have even said innocent but this was Sherlock Holmes, he isn’t really innocent. “Sex, Sherlock,” John says with a shake of his head. “And for the record when the case is important enough, I do stay up all night with you.”

Sherlock’s face drains of all colour, “Do you think they’ll expect us to have sex?”

John bursts out laughing, “Maybe they expect that we are having sex, but I doubt they’re going to come look in on us to check.”

Sherlock clears his throat, “Well of course not, but there are all sort of indicators that they might be on the lookout for.”

John shakes his head, “Like what? Would you like me to give you a hickey or something? We aren’t teenagers, Sherlock,” he says reasonably.

“Well, no. But there’s a certain sort of aura couples give if they are having sex regularly. More physical, affectionate contact. Prolonged eye contact. Smiling to one another when they think no one’s looking,” Sherlock grimaces, “It’s hateful.”

John laughs, “You're being ridiculous. We’ll play up the affectionate, physical contact bit; but you’re constantly murmuring something or another to me anyway, I’ll make an effort to do the same; and we make eye contact and giggle all the time. Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be as hard as you think. I’ll take care of it. Besides, it’s not that hateful, look how long you’ve been sitting here holding my hand, you haven’t passed out yet from the mammoth amount of effort it’s taken.”

Sherlock looks down at their still joined fingers as though he'd forgotten about that point of contact completely. “Oh,” he murmurs.

“Yes, 'oh' is right. We’re going to do just fine. Now why don’t you go and take a shower or something while I take a nap.” John turns and grins at him, “Unless you want to give the sex a go,” he waggles his eyebrows for effect and Sherlock laughs. “That’s better, now go on and let me sleep in peace.”

Sherlock relinquishes his hold on John’s hand and stands up, preparing to leave the room, then he turns back, “Thank you for this, John.”

John waves him off, “You’re welcome, you mad man. Don’t mention it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes up feeling refreshed and equal parts nervous and excited.  He knows it’s probably a bit not good that he’s so excited to pretend to be a couple with his strictly platonic flatmate. He knows it’s a bit not good to have butterflies simply imagining the prolonged amounts of touching and hand holding he is going to get to do with the man who has literally no interest in such things. And yet, a bit not good or no, he can’t seem to help himself.

He yawns and stretches a bit, rolling over to find that Sherlock is sitting in a chair at the end of the bed, staring intently at him. He’s obviously showered not too long ago, his hair is wet and his curls hang a bit more heavily around his face. “What?” John asks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Sherlock blinks and rises from the chair, “It’s nothing,” he replies as he walks to the window and draws back the curtain to look out.

“It’s not nothing,” John says, sitting up and reaching for his suitcase on the floor.

“I’ve unpacked it for you,” Sherlock says without turning around.  “I needed something to do and I’ve read every book in the library.”

“Well that was thoughtful,” John replies carefully, still wondering what Sherlock had been thinking about.

“I’m going to need to sleep tonight.”

“Alright,” John says, not entirely sure why that’s an issue.

Sherlock turns his head to look over his shoulder at John.  “In case it has escaped your notice there is only one bed. You can’t sleep on the floor because it will hurt your shoulder, I can’t sleep on the floor because it’s too hard and I wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep. Neither of us can sleep on the sofa downstairs because there is no way that would escape my parents’ notice; mummy is up five times a night to use the loo or fetch herself a drink.”

John’s stomach does a flip, the sort of flip it does when adrenaline shoots through him, the sort of flip that he is never entirely sure whether it’s a product of excitement or fear.  “Well, I think we have our answer then.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Sherlock says, “And normally, I would just stay up; I’ve gone for two days without sleep before but I didn’t sleep the night before last either and I’m not getting any younger,” he says bashfully.  “I suppose I could try to sleep in the chair,” he says, looking thoughtfully at the furniture in question.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you numpty. We’ll just share; this bed is plenty big enough for the two of us. There’s no reason for anyone to sleep anywhere else. We can put up a pillow barrier if you want.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him as though he’s trying to delve into the deepest recesses of John’s mind.  “You’ve gone through great lengths to avoid that in the past.”

“When we’re on a case and staying in a hotel, yes.  But your parents think we’re together, we’re trying to convince them we’re together, and I can handle a bedmate for a night.”

“There’s more,” Sherlock says, continuing to flay John open with his eyes.

John flushes a bit and clears his throat, “I had nightmares,” he confesses softly.  “When I first got back from Afghanistan.”

Sherlock swallows and looks away, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“S’fine,” John says, a bit gruffly.  “Should be fine now.” It isn’t entirely true, he’d almost gotten over the nightmares in his first three years of knowing Sherlock but they’d started all over again when Sherlock jumped; they’d just been different dreams then. He didn’t have them very often anymore, but whenever he did he woke up with his heart pounding and tears in his eyes.

Sherlock pulls him from his thoughts, “Did you want to shower before dinner?  There’s an extra towel in the bathroom for you.”

“Perhaps I’ll just freshen up a bit then we can go down and help your mum and dad.”  

John goes to the loo and washes his face and hands, looking at himself critically in the mirror for a long moment. He’s looking old. Wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead, as much grey in his hair as there is blond, a bit of extra weight around the middle.

What is he thinking trying to pass himself off as Sherlock’s boyfriend? Sherlock looks so much younger than him; lovely dark hair, fit as anything, sharp cheekbones, stunning eyes, the man is ridiculously attractive; and his brain hasn’t slowed down any either. As John stares at himself in the mirror, he knows there isn't anything in real life that would attract Sherlock to him as a partner.

He shakes his head to clear the gloomy thoughts, it doesn’t matter anyway.  They were just playing at being a couple, none of this is real. In three days they’ll go back home to Baker Street and everything will return to the way it has always been. He squares his shoulders and gives himself a quick, fortifying nod before heading back down the hall to the bedroom.

When he opens the door, Sherlock lets out an undignified sound that John can only describe as a squawk.  He’s pulling on his trousers and has his shirt unbuttoned, he flushes bright red in the face and stammers, “Sorry. I was expecting you to take longer freshening up.”

John chuckles, “I was in the army, Sherlock, the entire construct of modesty is essentially foreign to me,” he says as he steps out of his own jeans to pull on a pair of trousers. “Furthermore, I’ve seen you in nothing more than a sheet, do you really think a glimpse of your pants as you do up your trousers is going to alarm me?” He pulls off his chunky, oatmeal coloured jumper and slips into a soft button up cardigan over his plaid button up. “Relax, would you? Everything is going to be fine, just act normal.”

“I don’t know how to be normal,” Sherlock says with a twinge of panic in his voice, he looks completely stricken and John’s heart goes out to him.  

His amusement fades some in the light of Sherlock’s fear, “Just be yourself.  I don’t mean be normal in the sense that there is a certain archetype type to follow, I mean be normal for you.  Be brilliant and enigmatic, be charming and funny, be stroppy and petulant, be unexpectedly sweet and thoughtful.  Just be who you are, and we’ll be who we have always been.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” Sherlock asks.

“Then we tell them the truth; we just say that you didn’t want them to be disappointed and we move on.  But it’s no worse than going down there and telling them now that this whole thing is a farce is it?”

Sherlock bites his lip and shakes his head, “We’ll be fine after this, right?”

John smiles at him, “Nothing’s going to change. I promise not to get weird if you don’t.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says definitively.

With one more smile, the two of them head downstairs once more. Sherlock’s parents are still in the kitchen, his mother overseeing the cooking his father is doing by the looks of things.  

“Sherlock, you haven’t slept a bit, have you?” Mrs. Holmes tsks.

John glances over at Sherlock in surprise, of course John knows Sherlock hasn’t slept but he doesn’t know how Mrs. Holmes has figured it out. Sherlock glowers at her, “Stop that,” John says, nudging Sherlock with his elbow, “You’ll give yourself wrinkles that way.” Then he turns to Mrs. Holmes, “What’s his tell?  How do you know he hasn’t been sleeping?”

Mrs. Holmes starts to respond, but Sherlock cuts her off, “Really, Mummy, just leave it. Don’t give John any more ammunition, he already nags me to death about sleeping and eating.”

“And all other manners of tedium,” John replies good naturedly.  

Mycroft is sitting at the kitchen table and he glances nervously between John and Sherlock for a moment and John thinks this is perhaps the most nervous he’s ever seen Mycroft look. Good heavens, the length these two has gone to ensure their parents were happy. John reaches over and gives Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and Mycroft’s face visibly relaxes. Sherlock however jerks as though John has touched him with a live wire.

“Sorry, love,” John murmurs, trying to make Sherlock’s reaction seem reasonable. “Did I startle you?”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing, forming the word love about half a dozen times.  John mentally cringes, they really should have discussed pet names.

“Perhaps you should have taken a nap while you were upstairs, Sherlock,” Mycroft comments, “It seems your brain is running rather sluggishly.”

Sherlock turns and glares full force at Mycroft and the two of them go through a bunch of facial expressions, undoubtedly expressing things John can hardly imagine.  

“Right,” John says, “That’s my cue to do something else.”  He walks over to where Mr. Holmes is peeling some potatoes, “Need a hand?”

“Sure,” he says, smiling up at John before pulling out a second paring knife and handing it to him.  He and Mr. Holmes chat while they peel the potatoes and get them ready to be boiled.  Eventually, the conversation comes back to Sherlock (as it always seems to with John) and his current argument with Mycroft. The two of them are sitting across from one another bickering and trying to out deduce the other. John rolls his eyes, “I don’t know how you managed when they were growing up.  I can’t imagine the strops Sherlock must have thrown as a teen.”

His father looks up at the two of them, a fond smile on his face, “It’s not so bad.  It’s the quiet that will haunt you later.”

John shudders, he remembers the quiet after Sherlock had faked his death.  He remembers how the silence has haunted him, how he hadn’t been able to stand being in the flat. He’d hated the deafening sound of silence, the way he’d been completely overwhelmed by the absence of his counterpart.  He swallows thickly, “You’re right about that,” he says softly.

Mr. Holmes glances up at him, “Oh, forgive me, John.”

John tries to wave him off, “It’s fine.”

“No,” he says.  “No, it’s not, not at all.  I forgot how very real his death was to you.  Vivi and I has no idea that you didn’t know, for what it’s worth.  We truly thought the two of you were in cahoots and that he had told you before he jumped.”  He shakes his head, “He should have known better. How did you ever forgive him?”

John glances over at Sherlock where he is sulking, his arms drawn close to his chest and bottom lip protruding.  He is so full of life and energy, he’s like the sun; he takes up all the space in the room and John would happily float around him in his orbit for the rest of his life.  He shrugs, “There wasn’t any choice in the matter really.” He chuckles remembering the way Sherlock has forced him into forgiving him, “The wanker made me think I was going to get blown up to get me to forgive him.”

“He what?” Mrs. Holmes asks, turning to look at John in disbelief.

Sherlock looks between the two of them, “Oh surely you’ve heard this one?” John asks.

“Really, John?” Sherlock groans from where he is seated at the table, now facing John and his parents instead of Mycroft but looking equally sulky.  

“Oh, yes,” John replies before re-telling the story of how they’d gone into the underground and Sherlock had made him think no one was coming and that he couldn’t turn off the bomb.  How he’d wriggled a confession of forgiveness out of him. “Truth be told, though, I’d already forgiven him,” John says with a soft smile in Sherlock’s direction. “One more miracle,” he whispers softly, “And there he was.”  John chuckles, “A bit later than I might have liked, mind you, but there nonetheless.”

Mrs. Holmes sniffles and dabs at her eyes, John looks at her in surprise, “I’m sorry.  Did I upset you?”

“No, no.  Don’t mind me,” she says waving a hand at John.  “I’m just so glad Sherlock found you.”

“As am I,” Sherlock says softly, startling John.  

John turns and looks at him, trying desperately to read whether Sherlock sincerely means it or not; whether it’s just part of the act.  

“Well,” she says, “Why don't you two go and set the table. Mycroft, you help me get the food brought out.”

The rest of the evening goes smoothly, lots of laughter and easy conversation.  John tells a vast array of Sherlock stories that entertain everyone.

As dessert is being served Mrs. Holmes asks, “Now when am I going to get to meet this lovely daughter of yours?  She is undoubtedly the closest thing to a grandchild I shall ever have.”

Sherlock chokes on a bite of pie and John accidentally dumps his own forkful on its way to his mouth, taken by surprise at Mrs. Holmes assumption that she is, in a way, a grandparent if their ruse is to be believed. Sherlock coughs and gasps and John finds himself thumping him on the back and trying to make sure he’s okay.

“Mummy,” Sherlock hisses, glaring daggers at her.  “John’s child is not my child. I would imagine he and Mary would resent that implication very much.”

“Well they’re hardly a couple anymore, dear,” she says reasonably.

Sherlock is about to say something more when John lays a calming hand on his forearm before sliding it down to his hand and rubbing his thumb soothingly along the smooth skin there.  “Sorry, you just took us a bit by surprise. We hadn't really talked about anything of that sort yet. Sherlock is her godfather, after all,” John says, glancing at Sherlock, “And she really does adore him.”

Sherlock looks down at his lap with a small pleased grin.

“And he’s rather fond of her, whether he’ll admit it or not,” John says with a smile.  “We’ll bring her by the next weekend I have her. Mary and I do every other weekend but she lives with Mary during the week.”

“That must be very hard for you,” Mr. Holmes says sympathetically.

John nods and takes a sip of his coffee, “It is, but Mary and I parted very amicably and I see her a lot more often than once every other weekend.  We have play dates and I take her on a lot of days that I have off when Sherlock and I aren’t chasing down criminals.”

“Well it’s nice you two could part on such good terms,” Mr. Holmes says.

Conversation flows away from there but John realizes his hand has stayed over Sherlock’s, continuing to rub along the skin there. When he starts to move it, Sherlock quickly flips his own hand over and grasps John’s more tightly in an obvious plea to leave it. John glances at him and smiles, giving his hand a little squeeze.

Eventually, after John has offered a dozen times to help with the dishes and putting away leftovers, they are shooed up to their room.  They walk in and Sherlock flops over onto the bed with a groan, rubbing his hands over his face, “This is ludicrous,” he grumbles.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” John says with a huff, pulling his jumper off and slipping into a pair of pajama bottoms before pulling on a fresh vest.  “They’ve been lovely.”

“No, you’ve been lovely, they’ve been intolerable.”

“They’re just happy for you, Sherlock,” John chides gently.

“But it’s a lie,” Sherlock says, dropping his arms and sitting up on his elbows to look at John, “They’re happy about a lie.”

“Get your pajamas on,” John says, moving toward the bed and giving Sherlock’s thigh a pat to get him to move before taking the decorative pillows off.  “And it’s not entirely a lie. You do have a companion and a best friend; you do have someone to stitch up your wounds and shoot criminals for you,” John says with a grin as he climbs into the bed and turns off the bedside lamp.

“But it’s not what they think.”

“Are you feeling guilty, Sherlock?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock says, switching off the light on the wall and climbing into bed next to John. They both roll onto their sides so they are facing one another. “I just don’t think we quite thought the whole thing through. What sort of things are they expecting to have happen with Rosie? How far are we planning to take this lie? Sure, it’s harmless enough if it’s just us but what about her?”

John shrugs, “Maybe she’d like to have some grandparents; neither Mary nor I have any parents so it might not be so bad. It’s not like she’ll see them all that often.” John yawns, “Besides we have years before we have to worry about her being able to understand what they’re implying about the two of us.  We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

Sherlock huffs and flops over onto his back. “Fine, but good luck explaining it to her when she is old enough. I can just imagine the conversation now, ‘No sweetie, daddy’s not gay but Sherlock is.  Well, it was just a little white lie meant to comfort Sherlock’s parents because he is alone and pathetic.’”

“Sherlock,” John says sharply, “You aren’t alone or pathetic.  Stop it with this pity party. Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it, alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says tersely.

John reaches out and wraps his fingers in Sherlock’s without really thinking about it, funny how quickly one can become accustomed to physical contact with someone. Sherlock’s breathing hitches for a moment and he holds his breath before letting it all out in one great gust of air.

“Sorry,” John says, giving his fingers a little squeeze before starting to draw back.

“No,” Sherlock says, covering John’s hand on his with his other hand, “It’s fine.”  They were quiet for a moment then Sherlock says softly, “It’s nice actually.”

He yawns and hums in agreement. It isn’t too long before both of them drop off into slumber, hands still linked.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Christmas, literal Christmas though, not the kind brought about by serial killers.

When John wakes up, he doesn’t quite want to open his eyes; he’s overwhelmed by the most happy sensation of peace and of _rightness_. He isn’t entirely sure what’s brought it on, but it’s the feeling one gets after a particularly pleasant dream and he really wants to hold onto the feeling just a little longer.  

But the longer he keeps his eyes closed and the more the feelings of his physical body come into focus, the more he realizes that he is feeling a sort of contentment deep in his bones not produced by dreaming but by the real world.

He peeks open one eye and sees the reason why almost immediately, Sherlock is wrapped around him like a bloody octopus. He’d pillowed his face on John’s chest, thrown an arm across John’s chest, and a leg across John’s thighs. His dark curls were a riotous mess, and his fingers are fisted in John’s tshirt. He looks impossibly sweet and vulnerable in his sleep. John’s heart aches with tenderness and in this moment John knows he is completely and totally doomed.

If John was a good man, he might’ve slipped out of Sherlock’s grasp and gone to the loo to give Sherlock a chance to wake up without feeling embarrassed. If John were an honorable man, he’d untangle himself from the mess of Sherlock’s limbs and put thoughts of waking up like this every day from his mind. If John were a good man, he would allow his best friend the boundaries he undoubtedly wants.

But John is not a good man, he doesn’t have a steel resolve, and he doesn’t always do the honorable thing. He gives into temptation and gently runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls for a moment. He stops moving after stroking the first one and when Sherlock doesn’t seem to wake up or move, John strokes a bit more firmly before delving more deeply into his curls and rubbing his scalp. He’s wanted to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair for as long as he can remember.

Sherlock lets out a soft moan and John freezes, “Sorry,” he murmurs, even though he isn’t.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock mumbles against his chest.

John happily complies, stroking Sherlock’s curls and rubbing at his scalp.

“John,” Sherlock groans, “Why haven’t you always done this?”

John chuckles, “Don’t know. I always imagined you’d hate having your hair touched. I also never pegged you as a cuddler.”

The last word seems to jolt Sherlock awake and he jerks out of John’s grasp as though he has just realized he’s become a human octopus over the course of the night.  John lets him draw away without resistance.

“My apologies,” Sherlock says stiffly.

John stretches his arms up over his head and yawns, “No worries. I always like a good cuddle.”

“You are the most ridiculous human I’ve ever met.”

“Well I have to be, don’t I?” John asks with a grin, “I live with you after all, I must be a bit mad or you’d have no interest in me whatsoever.” 

Sherlock shakes his head and climbs out of bed, stretching as he walks over to the window.

“How did you sleep?” John asks as he rolls onto his side to look at Sherlock, drawing his pillow in to his chest.

Sherlock turns and glances at the clock, “It’s half past eight,” he replies.  

John nods, “That’s an indication of how long you slept, not how you slept,” he points out.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “If I hadn’t slept well I wouldn’t have slept that long. I can’t remember the last time I slept that long.”

John is just about to ask what the plan for the morning is when there’s a knock on the door, “Everybody decent?” Mrs. Holmes calls through the door.

Sherlock looks pained at the question, just like a teenager whose mother has embarrassed them in front of their friend.  John giggles, “Yes, ma’am.”

The door creaks open a few inches and she says, “Breakfast is going to be in half an hour but coffee is ready now.”

“We’ll be down in a few minutes,” Sherlock replies.  When the door closes he turns to John, “Do you need to shower before breakfast?”

John shakes his head, “I’ll just pop in and brush my teeth and use the latrine while you’re showering.” 

Sherlock blushes and John hasn’t the foggiest idea why, they do this sort of thing all of the time at 221B. Sherlock has no sense of personal boundaries anywhere and they’d sort of fallen into the habit of using the loo while the other was showering long ago. But his reaction might indicate he has a bit more sense of personal boundaries than he’d let on, “Or not,” John says slowly, cocking his head at Sherlock. 

“No, it’s fine, it’s just my parents will assume we’re...” he trails off, leaving his sentence hanging there.

“They’ll assume we’re what? A couple?I’m not getting in the shower, Sherlock, they’re not going to assume we’re having shower sex.”

Sherlock flushes crimson, “You’re right,” he says quickly. “I’m being ridiculous.” He scoops up his towel from the bedpost and flees to the bathroom.

John lets his head fall to the mattress in exasperation. Sherlock will be the death of him.

Half an hour later, they find themselves downstairs without incident. Mrs. Holmes hands them both a cup of coffee and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s damp curls, “How did the two of you sleep?” 

“Well, thank you,” Sherlock tells her.

“Oh sure, she gets a nice sweet answer but when I ask you the same question I get a snarky one,” John says as he finishes stirring in milk and sugar into Sherlock's and slides it over to him before stirring milk into his own. He chuckles before he took a sip of coffee.

Sherlock looks over at him, his mouth opening and closing a bit like a goldfish; he is going to give them away simply because he can’t just be the same as he is with John everyday.  John grimaces a bit, “Only teasing, love.”

Sherlock stares at him a moment longer, clearly the moniker is still a shock to his system. Mycroft clears his throat from across the table, “Are you sleeping with your eyes open or do you do an impression of a goldfish every time he calls you love?  Is it supposed to be an inside joke?” 

John snorts, “Imagine that. I’d call you love every day just to force you to look like a goldfish.”  John shakes his head and guides a glaring Sherlock over to the table.

“Do shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbles.  

John reaches over and rubs Sherlock’s knuckles absentmindedly.

“Oh, you two,” Mrs. Holmes says with a smile. “John, I just can’t fathom where he found you.”  She sets down a platter with eggs and bacon and toast out onto the table followed by some orange juice.  “We never thought either of them would ever find anyone.” 

Sherlock viciously stabs a few pieces of bacon onto his plate followed by a couple of pieces of toast.

John reaches over and grabs the honey to pass it to him before he asks, Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge it other than to take it from John.

“Yes, well, some of us are less incompetent than others,” Sherlock snarks at Mycroft.

Mycroft sniffs haughtily, “Yes, lets talk about incompetency shall we? Who is the one who can’t manage to respond to affectionate words in a reasonable manner?” 

“Oh please,” Sherlock snaps, “As if you’d even know someone was being affectionate to you if they bit you in your fat arse.” 

“That’s rich coming from you,” Mycroft replies.

“Wait a minute!” John says as Mrs. Holmes says, “Now boys, really.”

Mycroft and Sherlock glare at one another but didn’t say anything.  

“Let's remember it’s Christmas,” John says, nudging Sherlock’s shoulders with his, “and we all want the same thing,” he says looking pointedly at Sherlock and Mycroft.

”He started it,” Sherlock grumbles before shoving a piece of toast into his mouth. 

“Well, this is dreadful breakfast conversation,” Mrs. Holmes says.  “Tell us how you and Sherlock first met, John.”

John grins over at Sherlock, “Ah, well, that probably isn't much better breakfast conversation as we met at a mortuary after Sherlock had just finished whipping a corpse.”

She laughs, “Good heavens, and you still decided to see him after all that.”

“Well I was rather desperate for a place to stay at the time,” John teases.

Sherlock gives him a small smile, “He thought I was brilliant, don’t let him fool you.”

“Well that was later, I wondered first if Mike had just told you about me. In the cab I thought you were brilliant.” 

“So then you started dating?” Mrs. Holmes asks.

“Ah, no,” John replies. “Then we went to a crime scene, then I sent a text to a murderer, then we had dinner and Sherlock told me he was married to his work.” 

The table laughs, “So when did you two start dating?”

Sherlock and John look at one another, “Do you want to tell it?” John asks, not really sure how long ago Sherlock’s parents had thought they were seeing one another.

Sherlock shakes his head, “You’re the storyteller, just look at your blog.”

John sucks in a breath, this is horrendous; how is he meant to decide how they started dating in their imaginations? How far back is he meant to go? “Well,” he says, “It wasn’t official at first. But I think it has to have started that very first night, after I shot the cabbie.”

Mrs. Holmes gasps and John looks at her, startled by her sudden intake of breath.  “You _shot_ someone?”

John clears his throat, “You’ve never heard the story of the first case Sherlock ever pulled me along on?” 

She shakes her head and his father looks a bit shocked, too.

“Oh, go on then,” Sherlock says, “I do look so clever in John’s eyes.”

 John chuckles and sets about telling the story, when he reaches the end he says, “So, it was either shoot the cabbie or watch this idiot take a pill, which I thought at the time would kill him.” John shrugs, “It wasn’t really much of a choice, even then.”

“It was a good shot, really,” Sherlock says. “The distance the shot had to travel, through a window pane, nonetheless, John is an excellent marksman. Then there’s the hound which is also a testament to your marksmanship; Lestrade completely missed that dog, but you just raised your arm and killed it.” 

“You’re making me sound like a murderer,” John complains. “And the dog, for what it’s worth is not just some poor innocent pup, it was trying to attack us and most likely had rabies. M And we were all drugged.”

 Mrs. Holmes laughs, “You didn’t finish the story.” 

“Which story?” 

Mrs. Holmes laughs again, the sound bright and full of joy, “The one about how the two of you got together.”

“Oh,” John swallows and glances at Sherlock, he’d gotten lost in reminiscing; he’d forgotten he’s supposed to be telling a lie. “Well, after Sherlock got away from Greg and his team and deduced I’d been the one to shoot the cabbie, we went out for Chinese; there's a little place just down the street from our flat, open all hours and they never let us pay.

”Anyway, we stayed there for hours, laughing and talking. Just as we were leaving, the skies opened up and it started pouring. Sherlock took off like a shot, running through the rain and I followed him. When we got back we were laughing and breathless from the mad dash to our flat, we were soaked and cold. Sherlock turned to look at me in the foyer of our flat and,” John pauses, it’s a scenario he’s imagined a thousand times over when they’ve gotten back from a case and the colour is high on Sherlock’s cheeks and they were both giddy from the adrenaline and the thrill of solving a case. “Then he kissed me,” John says with a soft smile.   

Sherlock looks over at him, probably at the wistful tone in his voice, and his eyes scan John’s face; his brow furrowing slightly the way it does when he is trying to understand something. Sherlock opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something and John’s heart hammers wildly in his chest even though he isn't entirely sure why, but the doorbell rings, interrupting whatever it is Sherlock had meant to say.   

“I’ll get that,” Mr. Holmes says, John looks up to see Mrs. Holmes dabbing at her eyes with a napkin and Mycroft staring at the two of them calculatingly.  John clears his throat, feeling Sherlock’s gaze still boring into the side of his face. He drains the remainder of his coffee and says, “Let me help you tidy up, shall I?” 

Mrs. Holmes protests, but John insists; truth be told he needs something to do with his hands, he needs something to distract him from the way Sherlock and Mycroft’s eyes seem to be boring through his skull and into his very soul.  He clears away empty plates and cups, taking them to the sink and beginning to wash them. He mentally cursed himself, sure his wistfulness, the secret desire he’s carried with him all these years, must have slipped out through his voice. This whole thing has been a terrible idea, what was he thinking? 

Of course he can promise Sherlock he is always going to be the same; he’d spent their entire acquaintance in love with Sherlock. Nothing would change for John, because this is exactly the same as his life every day. But if Sherlock finds out that John is in love with him, things will change, John is sure of it. How could they not? Sherlock is terribly uninterested in him as anything more than a companion. 

There’s a great bunch of noise that draws John from his moping, he turns from where he is standing at the sink and sees half a dozen people filing into the kitchen; talking about traffic and shouting about the house looking just as they always remembered it. Mrs. Holmes gets quite ruffled about that comment as they’d been working so hard at renovations lately, leaving Mr. Holmes to try to sooth her. Sherlock moves over to lean against the counter beside John, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Who are all these people?” John asks under his breath, continuing to wash up the dishes.

“Cousins,” Sherlock spits the word venomously.

John raises an eyebrow, “I thought we were having Christmas with your parents?” 

“Yes, as did I. It would seem Mycroft forgot to mention this bit.” 

“Right,” John says with a bit of a sigh.  “Are you alright?”

“Of course.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno,” John says as casually as he can manage with a small shrug. “Didn’t throw you to badly with our story, did I?”

“No,” Sherlock says, clearing his throat.  

When John glances at him and sees a faint flush is colouring his cheeks.

“You are rather a better actor than I gave you credit for.”

 “Well remember that the next time you decide to jump off a roof and not tell me you were faking because you’re afraid my acting abilities aren’t up to par.”

Sherlock snorts but his response is interrupted by his mother calling the two of them over, “Sherlock, bring John over to meet your cousins. John, leave the rest we’ll finish them up later.” 

John dries his hands on a dishtowel, turning with a bit of a grin to try and offset how dismal Sherlock looks. John leans into his ear and whispers teasingly, “Smile. People who are in love smile.”

Sherlock snorts and a small smile quirks the corner of his lips as they head over.  John is introduced to Patrick and Martha Edinborough first; recently married, no children yet. Then James and Elizabeth Madsen along with their two children Jenny and Kyle. He chats pleasantly with the two of them for a few minutes, ignoring the way Sherlock is fidgeting to his right with impatience or irritation, John isn’t entirely sure which.  

“Sorry,” Elizabeth says, “I don’t think I quite caught who you were?”

“Oh, John Watson,” he says with a smile, “I’m Sherlock’s,” he pauses for a moment, not quite sure what to say when three answers popped from various mouths.  

Sherlock says, “Partner.”

While Mycroft says, “Lover.”

And Mrs. Holmes supplies, “Boyfriend.”

John sighs, “Yes, that.”

Elizabeth stares at him for a moment, “You’re having us on!” she says accusingly as she looks around the room at the Holmes family.

“Sorry?” John asks, hoping that he hadn’t given away the fact that this is all an act for Mr and Mrs. Holmes’ benefit.

“Well you must be!” Elizabeth exclaims again. “As though Sherlock could ever find anyone who would want to date him; it’s preposterous.” 

“What my sister means to say,” Martha inserts, “Is that it is lovely to meet you, John. You must be a very...” she trails off as though she isn’t quite sure what word to fit in there, “Special person.”  She gives him a bit of a pained smile.

John feels Sherlock practically deflate next to him, no wonder he never wants to go home for family Christmas. John’s hackles rise and he takes Sherlock’s hand in his, “Well, I’m fairly ordinary, I assure you. Sherlock’s the spectacular one,” he says softly, looking over at Sherlock and giving his hand a light squeeze. Sherlock glances at him, still looking completely morose.

Everyone is saved having to come up with an answer when the children decide they’ve had quite enough of standing in the kitchen and listening to the grown ups chatter. “Can we have presents now?” Jenny asks.

“Of course you can, darling,” Mrs. Holmes coos, motioning for everyone to move to the living room.

John gives Sherlock’s hand a tug back when the rest of the family has moved past the threshold of the living room.  “Don’t worry about it,” he says softly, thinking that perhaps Sherlock is worried that their cover has been blown.

“Well, they’re right, aren’t they?” Sherlock says, releasing John’s hand from his grasp, “It is preposterous.”  Without another word he walks off into the living room, leaving John to wonder what exactly is preposterous.

John squares his shoulders and marches into the living room, finding that Sherlock has already taken a seat in a chair and crossed his arms over his chest. It’s fairly obvious that he wants to have a sulk and sit alone but John will be damned if he is going to let that harpie win. He strides confidently across the room to where Sherlock is seated and plops down onto the floor in front of him, squirming until he is nestled in between Sherlock’s legs on the floor with his back against the chair. 

Sherlock snorts and John tips his head back to grin up at him, reaching for his hand and drawing it over his shoulder so he can hold it while they sit there.  Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze and John recognizes that this is probably as close to a thank you as he is liable to receive. 

The handing out and receiving of gifts goes well. Sherlock is tickled by the swiss army knife John has bought for him with multiple extensions that he could do all sorts of things with. And John has been surprised and very pleased by the lovely blue jumper Sherlock has given him. Sherlock’s parents have bought them couple gifts for their home, which John finds mildly amusing as they are both adults and have lived on their own for quite some time; they realistically have no need for cutlery and glasses (The glasses especially, because Sherlock is bound to break those fragile things.)

The children are happy with all of the gifts they’ve received as well. Sherlock leans over and explains to John that they were his his mother’s sister’s grandchildren but when she’d passed away four years ago and his mother realized the children has no paternal grandparents, she’d decided to become a surrogate grandmother.  His father has gladly gone along with it.

When they finish opening all of the gifts, Mr and Mrs. Holmes go to get some coffee ready and make sure all of the preparations were going smoothly for dinner. John squeezes Sherlock’s knee and climbs to his feet, planning on going to the kitchen to help them.

Sherlock reaches out and tugs his hand. John looks over at him and raises an eyebrow at him in question. Sherlock gives him a pleading look and John cocks his head. He isn’t entirely sure what he wants from him. Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets out a petulant huff, clearly irritated at being misunderstood.

 “I’m just going to go help your parents,” John says under his breath, shaking his head and giving up at the guessing game about what Sherlock is saying to him.  

Sherlock releases his hand and folds his arms over his chest.  

“You’re welcome to come with me, you know.”

Sherlock glares at him and John gives up and heads to the kitchen. He is helping Mr. Holmes cut and peel potatoes (again) when Sherlock and Mycroft walk through the kitchen, grabbing their coats and heading out through the door.

“Damn those cigarettes for being the only thing those two will willingly do together,” Mrs. Holmes grumbles.

“Oh, leave them Vivie,” Mr. Holmes says with a soft smile.

John shakes his head, “You should see Sherlock off nicotine.  It’s awful.”

“Really? I imagine he’s quite terrible.”

“Yeah, it happens every so often that we’ll decide he’s going to quit; keeping up a smoking habit is impossible in London and he is mostly incapable of using the patches in moderation the way he is supposed to. So we’ll pay off everyone that he could possibly buy from, which is no easy feat, mind you, and then he’ll just quit entirely. He always wants to do it cold turkey; it’s terrible. You’ve never seen a strop like the one he throws _every time._  You’d think I’d have learned by now, but I haven’t. He always gets me to hand over the cigarettes in the end, he is very good at getting his way.”

“John,” Mrs. Holmes says carefully.

John glances up at her, “Yes?”

“Perhaps this is too forward of me, but you do live with my son so I can’t imagine it will be too far out of the range of acceptable questions.”

John swallows, he isn’t sure he likes the direction this question is headed.

“Do you love my son?”

John looks down at the potato in his hand and thinks for a moment, how is the best way to answer this question?  

He looks up at her again and is about to force out an answer when Mr. Holmes comes to his rescue, “Now, my dear, why don’t you leave the poor man alone.  He’s been through quite an ordeal and it must be very difficult sorting everything out. He pats John on the shoulder, “It’s really quite alright, do it all in your own time. We’re just glad he has you. He seems quite besotted.” 

John chuckles, “I don’t know about that.  He’s always seemed so very unattainable to me, like some dream that I was never meant to have. He’s so bold and dynamic; so much,” John pauses, unsure of what to say, _“More_ than me, if that makes sense.”

“Oh don't be silly dear,” Mrs. Holmes says as she takes the potatoes John has peeled and chopped to rinse and dump into the pot on the stove. “He’s quite besotted with you, you just don’t know what Sherlock was like before you. You should see the way he looks at you.” 

“And it seems to me,” Mr. Holmes adds, “That you sell yourself rather short.  You are a rather remarkable man yourself.”

“He would have to be to put up with me,” a voice says from the doorway. John turns to see that Sherlock and Mycroft have come back inside; Sherlock’s curls are windswept and his cheeks are rosy, his eyes looks bright and clear.

John smiles at him in spite of himself, “Go wash your hands and help me peel the carrots.” 

Sherlock huffs, but it doesn’t hold any malice; truth be told, it seems like he wants any excuse he could find to stay away from his relatives and John can’t blame him. Conversation flows on in the kitchen as they peel vegetables and do the final leg of preparation for the food. 

Sherlock has almost finished peeling carrots when the knife slips and he slices his finger open.  “Damn,” he grumbles dropping the knife and sucking his forefinger between his lips.

“Let me look at it,” John instructs, setting his knife down and turning to take Sherlock’s hand.  He drags him over to the sink where the light coming through the window is better and tsks under his breath. “Even injure yourself cutting carrots without me,” John teases, “What did you do without me for two years?”

“Got a lot of scars,” Sherlock says sincerely.

John blinks at him and stares for a moment, trying to ascertain exactly what that means. It’s the closest Sherlock has ever come to admitting he’d missed John in his time away.

John’s thoughts are interrupted when Sherlock breaks eye contact to look at his hand, “You’re getting blood all over you.”

John glances down to see the he is indeed acquiring a good deal of blood from Sherlock’s finger, “Damn,” he mutters as he examines the wound.  “Looks like you really knicked yourself.”

Mrs. Holmes by this point has noticed that something is amiss and has come over to flutter around his side.   

“Do you have a suture kit?” John asks.

“No, of course not,” she tells him as though he’d asks for something ludicrous.  Sherlock is her son, after all, it doesn’t seem that out of the question.

“Not to worry,” John replies, wrapping Sherlock’s finger up in a dish rag, “I brought my travel size one.  You never know when you’ll need it when you travel with this one,” he says giving Sherlock a wink. “We’ll be back down once I get him stitched up, won’t be a moment.”

He ushers Sherlock upstairs and has him sit in the chair while he unpacks his kit from his bag. He gets everything ready and brings over a few alcohol prep pads to clean everything out. Sherlock hisses when the cool pad touches the wound, “Sorry,” John says wincing in sympathy.  When he’s satisfied that the wound is thoroughly cleaned he plunges the needle of local anesthetic before drawing the needle through the skin, pulling it closed. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says softly and very sincerely. 

John hums, “It’s just a quick suture, Sherlock, it’s no big deal.” 

“No, not for the stitches,” Sherlock says waving his other hand around vaguely.  “For this,” he says. “For all of the pretending and the lying, for caring about me enough that you’re willing to do this.  It,” Sherlock clears his throat, “It means a lot to me.”

John glances up at him, “Well, you’re welcome. It’s no big deal, either,” John says with a shrug as he ties off the third stitch; that should do it.  

Sherlock snorts, “Well it’s sort of a big deal.”

“Fine then, when we get home, you can cook dinner for a week and buy the milk,” John says, closing up his case and tossing it back into his bag.

“Let’s not get too carried away.”

John laughs and they headed back downstairs to where everyone is beginning to move to the dining room table. Food is served not too long after that and conversation flows around the table. Dinner isn’t as bad as John has been expecting after the morning they’d had with Sherlock’s cousins; Elizabeth makes snide remarks every here and there but they were easy to ignore and get drown out by the conversations.  He’s been careful to touch Sherlock and try to involve Sherlock in conversations which can be like pulling teeth at times when Sherlock wants to have a sulk about something that has been said. 

They convene to the living room and the kids go upstairs to the spare bedroom to play, and everyone has finished drinks and dessert. John has just started to relax, Sherlock is leaning against John, pressing them together from shoulder to hip and John is starting to feel a bit sleepy from how cozy and comfortable he is when the conversation turns again.  

 “So, tell us, John,” Elizabeth says, with a smirk, “What is it that drew you to our Sherlock?  Would you call what you two have love?”

Sherlock flinches beside him and pulls away slightly and John decides he’s had quite enough. 

“The easy answer, is yes,” he says calmly, but with a voice full of steel.  “But in my experience, love is not terribly enduring. _Love_ as we have come to know it is a feeling; it’s seeing all of the good and none of the faults.  It’s far too trite a word to describe what I feel for Sherlock. He infuriates me; I’ve never known someone to get under my skin the way that he does. Sometimes I could just strangle him, I have in fact, it’s a small miracle I didn’t kill him the night he showed up and told me he wasn’t dead as though it has all been some grand joke.

“And I have never felt the sort of devastation I felt when he jumped from that roof. There are no words to describe the void he left inside of me when he fell, one moment I was standing there and everything was fine. And then I got a phone call and my entire world shattered in one fell swoop,” John looks down at his hands again, “I have never experienced loss, and to be clear I was a doctor in the army, as I did when I thought Sherlock was dead. There was nothing that could console me, nothing to lighten the burden of guilt, there was no hope, no future. I’ve never felt pain the way I have at his hands.”

He looks over at Sherlock, then, who wears a rather pained expression, “But,” he says softly, “I have never felt ecstasy as profoundly as I have with Sherlock either. I am a military man, I thrived for years on comradery and on the knowledge that someone has your back; on the life and death situations you are put in. But there has never, in my many years of being a captain and a surgeon, been anything that has made me feel as alive as this incredible, stunning human being. He was, for a very long time, the reason I woke up in the morning.

John looks over at Elizabeth again, his eyes narrowing, “When I came back from the war, I was so alone. I can’t describe what it’s like to come back from something like that; it was terrible, I thought I’d never live again.  There were days,” John swallows roughly, “there were days I’d wished I had died. _Dear God, please let me live._ Those were the words I’d said when I got shot, how I regretted them. I was nothing without my unit, nothing without people to save and battles to fight. I was lost and drifting and no one cared.

“And then I met this man, and it sounds ludicrous but it changed my life completely in an instant; it was as though for the first time since I’d returned from Afghanistan, someone _saw_ me. Really saw me, and in a way that no one else ever has. Of course, he is completely brilliant and I am amazed by him every single day of our lives but it’s so very much more than that.

“So do I love him?  Yes, I suppose I do, in a way that I have never and will never be so hopelessly devoted, besotted, and attached again.”

The room is silent enough that you could hear a pin drop, John glances around the room to find everyone, including Mycroft and Sherlock, staring at him.

Finally the silence is broken with Elizabeth’s husband clearing his throat, “Well,” he says, “I don’t know about everyone else, but I for one am very glad that the two of you found each other and that everything sorted itself out.” He nods once before looking down at his watch, “We best be on our way, don’t want to get home too terribly late with the kiddos.”

Martha stands up and hugs her sister and brother-in-law. John shakes James’ hand and is forced into a stiff hug from Elizabeth, much to both of their chagrin.  “Well,” John says to her once James has left the room to fetch their children, “I do so look forward to seeing you again in the future.” 

Martha snorts from where she sits and Elizabeth chooses not to dignify that with a response. The children come in and give hugs all around and soon they’re all bundled up and out the door.   

John glances at Sherlock to find that his eyes are still glued to him calculatingly.  He gives him a small smile, which might have turned out as more of a grimace. “Well,” he says sitting down and looking around at the people still left gathered around the room, “I’m very sorry if I offended your sister,” he says when his eyes landed on Martha.

“Oh, no don’t be. I fear she quite deserved it; she’s been a stay at home mother for too long, I think, it’s turned her into a snob and a busy body.”

“Well, we never really got on,” Sherlock says with a shrug, still staring at John oddly.

Smiling smugly, Mrs. Holmes stands and starts collecting plates and glasses.

John clears his throat and stands, eager to be out from under Mycroft and Sherlock’s piercing gaze, “Mrs. Holmes, let me help you with these dishes.”

He follows her out to the kitchen and he starts washing dishes while she packages up left overs. Sherlock comes out a few minutes later and leans against the counter to stare at John. John huffs impatiently, “If you only came out to stare at me, you can march yourself right back into the living room.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile, “You just never stop surprising me.”

“Pick up a towel and start drying dishes.”  When Sherlock complies, John adds, “And stop with the look.”

“What look? You aren’t even looking at me.” 

“I don’t have to, you always look like that after you stare at me for some indeterminable amount of time. It’s the look that says you’ve got me all figured out,” John says. “That we both know some truth when I know nothing of the sort.” 

Sherlock’s response is cut off by Martha’s voice in the doorway, “Oh, look at the Mistletoe.” John glances over at her from where he stands washing the dishes but doesn’t see any near her. “Alright, you two,” she says pointedly at the two of them with a huge grin on her face, “Surely you know what mistletoe means.” 

John glances at Sherlock in confusion and sees that Sherlock is looking up at the ceiling over the sink. John looks up and sees that mistletoe is indeed hanging there, “When did that get put there?” 

“Oh, I had Alfie put it up this morning,” she grins conspiratorially at John, “I just knew you wouldn’t be able to resist helping me.”

John chuckles but feels himself panicking a little; Sherlock can barely handle hand holding and endearments.  Sherlock looks equally nervous but they don’t really have much choice. John takes a steadying breath and leans in to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips; he’d pulls back quickly and Sherlock hasn’t even seemed to process what happened.

“A real kiss,” Mrs. Holmes chastises from where she stands, still packing up leftovers.

John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock nods once. John reaches up and draws Sherlock’s face in towards his with the dry heel of his palm. Sherlock comes willingly, and the moment their lips touch his eyes fall shut and he lets out a shuddering exhale.  

John finds himself intoxicated by the taste of Sherlock, his other hand decides to join in and he frames Sherlock’s face in his hands for a moment before they slip back into Sherlock’s curls, heedless of the wet. Sherlock’s arms wrap themselves firmly around John’s waist and draws him in closer until they’re standing chest to chest. John opens his mouth slightly and lets his tongue drag along Sherlock's bottom lip; he’s wanted to do this for as long as he can remember, his heart is beating wildly inside his chest in exultation and he feels like he could fly.

Sherlock gasps when John nips at his bottom lip and it’s only the sound of a plate shattering that snaps them both back to reality. John pulls back first and finds that the shattering noise came from the plate Sherlock had been holding but forgot about as they’d kissed. Sherlock, however stands with his eyes closed for a moment longer and John can’t resist running his thumb along his cheekbone or pressing one more soft kiss to those lips.

He glances around the room where Martha is smiling next to her husband, Mycroft is staring at them with his jaw dropped, and Mrs. Holmes is handing her husband leftovers to pack away in the refrigerator. When he looks back at Sherlock, Sherlock’s eyes are wide open and he is staring at John. But to his horror, he sees that tears have filled those beautiful eyes. 

Sherlock clears his throat, “I just remembered I have some work I need to attend to. Upstairs on the laptop,” he says, turning his head and hiding his eyes from John before fleeing the room.

With a sigh, John goes back to washing the dishes and the room resumes its conversations. John can’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; this is intolerable. When he’s done with the dishes, he sees that Martha and Patrick are getting their coats and gloves on. He bids them a good night as well, telling them it has been a pleasure to meet them and assuring them he would pass along their goodbyes to Sherlock.

When he glances around the kitchen and deems it has been made tidy enough, he says, “Well, if you will all excuse me, I think I’ll head up to bed as well.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Holmes says, giving him an indulgent smile.   

He says good night and treads softly up the stairs, he pauses for a moment at the door but decides he may as well get this over with.  

But he’s surprised when he comes into the room, all of the lights were turned off and Sherlock is lying curled up under the blankets on his side facing away from John.   

John undresses and put on pajamas before slipping into bed himself. He watches Sherlock’s breathing pattern, it doesn’t look like he is breathing deeply enough to be actually asleep.  “Sherlock?” John whispers, hoping the man might be awake and want to talk about whatever it is that has upset him so. 

But the man in question doesn’t stir and John’s heart sinks even further, he exhales softly and closes his eyes to try to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s left sweet comments (and kudos) on this work and to everyone who’s taken time to read it. I appreciate it and am so glad you’re enjoying it. 
> 
> Also, Merry Christmas!

John is stuck, he can’t find the energy to move.  He’s staring up at a building, eerily familiar, on a brisk autumn day and his heart is racing; every fiber of his being is straining, attempting to force him forward. But it’s as though he’s glued to the ground, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to move.

And that’s when he sees the silhouette on the top of the building, a billowing black coat and dark curls framing the man. John gasps as his phone starts to ring, he pulls it from his pocket. “No,” he whimpers into the speaker of the phone before the man on the other end gets to say a word. “Please, don’t.”

“I asked you once what you thought your last words would be if someone murdered you,” the voice says.

John feels a bit of hope stir in his stomach, something at the back of his mind tells him this isn’t how it goes, maybe there’s still hope, it isn’t too late he can still save Sherlock.

“But I fear mine aren’t any more clever than yours were,” he says.

“Please,” John whispers, “Please don’t do this.”  And even getting his voice to come out feels hard; he struggles against whatever it is keeping him rooted to the spot, desperate to get to him. If he could just reach him everything would be alright. If he could just get to him he could save him.

“Goodbye, John.”

“No! Sherlock!” John shouts and suddenly his restraints are gone and he’s flying forward.  

The jolt pulls him from his nightmare and John is sitting up in bed, panting with sweat soaking through the back of his tshirt. He rubs a hand over his eyes and lets out a shaky breath, trying to slow his heart rate.

“John?” the voice beside him asks as he tentatively reaches out a hand and touches John’s back, “Are you alright?”

John turns a bit to look over his shoulder, “I’m fine, Sherlock,” he lies. “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, “Only if you do.”

John huffs an exasperated sigh and flops back on the bed, “Happy?” John snaps.

Sherlock recoils a bit and doesn’t respond and John rubs his hands over his face, this is mortifying. Damn these stupid nightmares. He really thought he’d gotten through the worst of them.

“I have them, too, sometimes,” Sherlock whispers.

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, but he is staring off toward the other side of the dim room.  

“Sometimes I dream I’m falling and falling, I hear your voice cracking; I can hear the tears and the desperation.  The words, _he’s my friend, let me through,_ will haunt me for the rest of my life,” he says softly and John watches a shudder wrack Sherlock frame. “I’m sorry, John. I know I’ve says it before but it bears repeating. I have done nothing to earn your constancy nor your forgiveness; I’m sorry I haunt your subconscious and disturb your rest.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to sit up now and he looks as though he’s preparing to climb out of bed. John reaches out before Sherlock can get too far and before he loses his nerve. “Come here,” John says softly.

Sherlock blinks owlishly before laying back down, John tugs him closer until they’re laying face to face with one another. “I forgive you, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispers, reaching up and giving in to the impulse to trace Sherlock’s cheekbone; Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, at the touch or at the words, John isn’t sure. “I meant what I told your parents, there was never any choice, not for me. Of course I forgive you, the question now is do you?”

Sherlock’s eyes open and he raises an eyebrow at John, “What do I have to forgive you for, John?”

“Oh, I’m sure there are many things,” John replies with a grin, “But I didn’t mean me. I meant have you forgiven yourself? It seems to me that you have been carrying around a fair amount of guilt for quite some time.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John,” he says, but the bravado is false and they both know it. “There’s nothing to forgive myself for. I did what was necessary.”

“Mhmm. You say that and you may have even felt that way once, until you came home and saw what had happened to me in your absence. I’m no genius, Sherlock, but you are and I know the way your mind works. I know you could read the year and a half of therapy I went back to, I know you could read the weight loss, hell you probably knew that my limp came back for about six months. The lengths you went to in order to get me to forgive you says you knew that you needed to work for my forgiveness. And it isn’t just because you needed someone to work with you and Molly Hooper refused.”

“Well when you stop waking up in the middle of the night, I can stop feeling guilty.”

John laughs, “How will you possibly know that I’m sleeping the whole way through the night. Do you plan on making this a regular occurrence?” The idea doesn’t sound half bad, John thinks distractedly.

“You would never go for that,” Sherlock says.

“What do you mean I would never go for it?” John says, _“You_ would never go for it. You’re married to your work and you don’t sleep normal hours; you’re as uninterested in me as...” he trails off, “I don’t know what,” John grumbles. “It’s too late for me to come up with an apt metaphor. Something that is completely unattracted to something else,” he finishes lamely.

“If I was interested, would you be?” Sherlock asks curiously.

John curses himself, he’s said too much as ever and left the wrong things unsaid.  “You’re not, so why do you care?”

“Why do you think I’m uninterested?”

“Because you are!” John exclaims. “You’re married to your work and you don’t do relationships. ‘Emotions are human error, John,’ isn’t that what you told me? Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side. How could you possibly be interested?”

They are quiet for a few moments, John’s head ranting angrily at him for letting it get this far, for letting everything get out of control.

“I’m interested,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Sorry, what?” John asks as the gears of his mind came to a grinding halt; he can’t possibly have heard Sherlock correctly.

“I’m interested,” Sherlock says.  “I just can’t bear you thinking that I don’t care.”  Sherlock looks away from John, but continues, “Sentiment _is_ a weakness, Moriarty says as much, but I just don’t see how you can believe I feel nothing for you. I shot a man point blank for you, I jumped off a roof for you, I came back from the dead for you.  _twice.”_

“Twice?” John asks, momentarily sidetracked.

“Yes,” Sherlock growls, “After your wife shot me, my heart stopped beating. I tried to fight the shock, tried to fight the death which seemed to be coming for me but nothing worked until a little voice in my head, _Moriarty’s voice_ told me that you were in danger. So I clawed my way back and didn’t let go because I was afraid for you; because I made a promise and I couldn’t let her hurt you.”

“You almost died?” John asks stupidly.

“You know I did! You read my chart a dozen times,” Sherlock growls. “But what does it matter? You know the lengths I have gone through to protect you, how can you believe I don’t care?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John says softly. “I just meant that you weren’t interested in anything more than friendship.” 

“You are the most imbecilic person I know.”

“What?” John asks, offended, as Sherlock rolls from the bed and moves to stand.  “No, hang on,” John says, climbing from bed, too, “You don’t just get to say something like that and then walk away.”

“And why ever not,” Sherlock snarles, tying his dressing gown and trying to move past John to get to the door.

John reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock’s chest, “Because we are not done having this conversation.” 

“Well I am,” Sherlock retorts shoving John out of the way and heading toward the door.

“I’m interested, too!” John says, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and spinning him around so he can see his face, “You daft sod. I’ve been interested since the day we met.”

“I...” Sherlock stutters, “You... What?”

“You heard me,” John says, “I’m not saying it again. Especially if your interest doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Oh, bollocks,” John curses, “Fine. I’ll say it. I’m tired of dancing around this conversation. I love you, you idiot. I always have, I probably always will.”

“You love me?” Sherlock says slowly, incredulously.

John groans, “Yes, now you can tell me you are flattered by my interest but are married to your work.”

Before John can say anything further, Sherlock lunges at him, his long fingers curling around John’s face as he desperately presses his lips to John’s.  John groans and drags Sherlock closer to him, gripping his robe in his fingers and kissing Sherlock with every fiber of his being. It is bliss, the world around them ceases to exist as tongues eagerly stroke into one another’s mouths exploring teeth and gums and lips; hands cup faces and clench in muscles, it doesn’t take long for Sherlock’s fingers to find their way up the back of John’s shirt nor does it take long for John’s fingers to find their way to Sherlock’s curls.

“Bed,” Sherlock gasps as he pulls back minutely to breathe.

John takes the opportunity to spin them around, pressing Sherlock down onto his back on the bed as he attacks his neck; kissing and sucking at the skin there, encouraged by the soft mewling noises Sherlock is making. John un-ties Sherlock’s robe and slips it down his shoulders before tugging at the hem of his t shirt. Sherlock sits up slightly to aid him in his endeavor and tugs at the the hem of John’s, stripping him, too.

John presses their naked torsos together and Sherlock’s back arches and he presses further into John. He wraps his fingers in John’s hair as John bends his head to lick at his earlobe, sucking it slowly into his mouth.

“That feels amazing,” Sherlock murmurs.

“What?” John breathes against Sherlock’s damp ear, feeling him shudder under him, “This?” he asks before tracing Sherlock’s ear with the tip of his tongue.

“No,” Sherlock says, arching once more into John, “Well, yes,” he recants, “But that’s not what I was referring to.”

John pulls back and looks down at him, “What, then?”

“Just this,” Sherlock says softly, running his hands up and down John’s back, “Your skin against mine, your warmth, your solidness over me and around me.”

John leans down and captures Sherlock’s lips once more, who would have thought Sherlock would be a romantic?  John presses kisses along Sherlock's jaw, nibbling at the slight stubble and Sherlock shudders under him. John leans up on his elbows and looks down at the man under him, "You're rather sensitive," he comments as he traces Sherlock's nipples with his thumb.  
  
Sherlock arches into the touch even as he flushed, he nods but looks rather insecure.  
  
John smiles at him, pressing a kiss to his lips, "You're amazing," he breathes.

Sherlock reaches out and wraps his arms around John’s back, drawing him even nearer, “Please,” he gasps as John sucks lightly at the skin just behind Sherlock’s ear.

“Please what?” John murmurs, his words a bit mushed together as he continues to trail kisses down Sherlock’s neck. How long has he wanted to kiss this neck?

“I don’t know; I want everything,” Sherlock says, his voice breaking a bit in desperation or embarrassment, John isn’t entirely sure which.

“It’s alright,” John soothes as his hands trail down Sherlock’s abdomen and he tugs at Sherlock’s pajama bottoms.  Sherlock lifts his hips and helps to struggle out of them along with his pants.

John kicks his own off and the two of them groan in tandem as warm skin presses against warm skin.  “Yes,” Sherlock hisses, rubbing his hands down John’s back and gripping John’s buttocks to draw their pelvises together.  

Sherlock’s cock slides against John’s, the slick and slide together feels phenomenal but it isn't enough. “I want to completely dismantle you,” John murmurs. “I want to show you pleasure like you've never known before.”  He presses his lips to Sherlock's neck and Sherlock arches into his body trying to get better friction on his cock. “I want you to crave me more than you crave nicotine.”

“It's a little late for all of that,” Sherlock murmurs, letting his hands trail down John's body to cup his arse. “I'm hopelessly addicted to you and everyone knows it.”

“Yes, well I told your whole family how hopelessly in love with you I am,” John grumbles. “I'm sure they think I'm completely hopeless.”

“They think you’re, uhhhn,” Sherlock groans, interrupting his own train of thought as John reaches a hand down to hold his hips steady. “Yes, fuck that feels good. They think you're sweet and way too good for me.”

“No they don't. They adore you,” John groans. _“I_ adore you.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his hands stroke along John's neck before slipping up to slide through the hair at the base of his skull. “Say it again.”

“What?” John murmurs, pressing his lips to Sherlock's collarbone. 

Sherlock huffs and resolutely clamps his lips together, forcing John to try to divert some of the blood from his groin to his brain as he attempts to replay their conversation.

When he realizes what Sherlock is after he can’t help but smile at the other man, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispers. 

Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and his entire body melts under John's, completely boneless and vulnerable. 

“You know,” John murmurs conversationally as he reaches between their bodies and holds their cocks in his fist to the best of his ability, “Common courtesy would dictate that when someone says the words, ‘I love you,’ you say it back.”

Sherlock's eyes fly open and John is frozen by them, “My apologies,” Sherlock murmurs. “I love you, John Watson.” He swallows and glances away but his hands continue rubbing and stroking over John's body. “I love you,” he whispers.

John reaches over and turns Sherlock's face so he can kiss him. Sherlock goes boneless under him even as his hips press up against John over and over.

“Is this how you want to do this?” John murmurs, his lips sliding over Sherlock's. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, sounding completely strung out and lost.

John brushes his nose along Sherlock's; this incredible, ridiculously sweet man will be the death of him. “You're perfect,” John murmurs. And then he decides that he wants to taste every inch of Sherlock's skin. “I'm going to map out your body with my mouth,” John murmurs, sliding his lips along Sherlock's cheek and jaw. “I'm going to taste every inch of you, would you like that?” 

Sherlock nods and his fingers dig into John's flesh. John looks down at his face, he’s flushed and panting, his eyes wide as he watches John. “Have you never done this before?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head and a flush stains his cheeks. “Is that a problem?”

“Problem?” John asks, “Definitely not.” He grins at Sherlock, “I'm surprised but I'd be lying if I said this isn't completely thrilling. I thought Mycroft was just taking the piss when he said you wouldn't know if sex alarmed you.”

He kisses him, then pulls back, “Does sex alarm you?” John asks, suddenly nervous that he is making Sherlock do something he doesn’t feel comfortable with.

“Stop being stupid,” Sherlock complains. “Of course sex doesn't alarm me. Do you think I would have told you to take me to bed if it did? I'm not a Victorian maiden.” 

“You certainly aren't,” John says with a grin as he reaches down and grips Sherlock's cock in his fist, stroking it a few times while pressing his mouth to Sherlock's neck again and sucking at the skin there. He can’t fathom the number of times he'd wanted to kiss and bite and suck this neck.

Sherlock groans and his fingers tangle in John's hair, and John groans against Sherlock's neck, he has the perfect hands for this.

“You have an obsession,” Sherlock says.

“With what?” he murmurs as he slides down Sherlock's body so he can nip at his Adam's apple.

“My neck,” Sherlock says but he groans and holds John’s head in place as John nibbles at the tender skin on his neck again.

“Mmmmh, that’s true,” John tells him.  He licks at the spot he’d just left a bruise, “You’ve no idea the number of times I’ve imagined marking this skin, no idea how often I’ve imagined the way your skin would taste and feel in my mouth and under my fingers.” John slips his fingers up Sherlock’s neck and into his curls, “And these curls,” he cuts himself off to kiss Sherlock, because his lips are perfection and they’re parted and he is everything John’s ever wanted. “I’ve always wanted to bury my fingers in your curls. And your lips, fuck Sherlock, they were made to be kissed. They’re perfect, plush and red and,” John groans completely at a loss for words. He presses his lips back to Sherlock’s once more, letting his tongue delve inside his mouth and pillage.  

John loves kissing, he loves it, but kissing Sherlock is unlike kissing anyone else. He could kiss the man for days, he wants to learn every inch of this mouth, to learn just how Sherlock’s tongue would brush against his, to memorize his taste. Oh, how he wants.

Eventually he draws back, brushing his nose along Sherlock’s before he presses kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks and his forehead, trailing them down the bridge of his nose and pressing a few to his chin for good measure. Sherlock lays frozen underneath him, it doesn’t even feel like he’s breathing. John sits up a bit so he can look at his lover’s face. “Alright?” John murmurs softly when he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are clenched shut.

Sherlock nods and his breath comes out in a huge exhale, his eyes open and he stares up at John. “It’s just so much,” he murmurs.

“We can slow down,” John says encouragingly. “It’s alright, we don’t have to do this much. We can just lay here and I’ll hold you if you want.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “No I want this, I do. I want you, I just didn’t expect it too feel like this. I didn’t anticipate the way my body would feel like I’m on fire and being frozen all at once.” 

“Do you like it?” John asks softly, already planning ways that he could scale back and overwhelm Sherlock less.

“Yes,” Sherlock says quickly, sincerely.  “It’s...” he trails off uncertainly. “It’s just that I never thought you’d want to touch me this way.” 

John swallows his throat feeling a bit tight. “Sherlock,” he whispers, “I’ve wanted to touch you this way for years.”

“We’ve been idiots,” Sherlock murmurs.

John laughs, “It doesn’t matter anymore.  I’m never letting you go again.”

“Promise?” Sherlock murmurs sweetly, and John feels his heart expand like it is going to burst.

“I love you,” he gushes, because it’s true and because he’s never felt something with this much conviction before.  “Yes, Sherlock, I promise.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs.  John leans in and covers his lips with his own once more before deciding that he really needs to move, he has so much more of Sherlock’s body to explore.   

So he trails his mouth down Sherlock’s collarbones reveling in the soft desperate noises Sherlock makes and the way he squirms underneath him. He continues his way down Sherlock’s chest, trailing kisses between his pectorals and lingering for a moment on the scar on his chest. Then he slicks his lips up to one of Sherlock’s nipples and sucks it between his lips.  

Sherlock cries out and John’s name passes through his lips, he sounds desperate and John wants that noise again. So he sucks on that perfect, erect nub and flicks his tongue over it and Sherlock doesn’t disappoint him.

He’s feeling quite pleased with himself as he reaches up and tweaks Sherlock’s other nipple between his thumb and forefinger and Sherlock continues making gorgeous noises. That is until John hears a cough down the hallway. Then he pulls off of Sherlock’s nipples so fast that he thinks he might have given himself whiplash and Sherlock moans piteously.  

“Fuck,” John murmurs, feeling completely mortified that someone is awake and can probably hear them having sex.  “You have to be quiet,” he murmurs. Sherlock looks vaguely hurt and John hurries on, “Not because I want you to be,” he assures as he presses his lips to Sherlock’s quickly, “The noises you make, Sherlock,” he kisses him again, “They’re intoxicating. And when we get home I plan on spending an entire day dismantling you in every way imaginable.”

“Then why...?” Sherlock asks, trailing of insecurely. 

“Your walls are very thin,” John says carefully.  “I can hear someone coughing, I’m sure they can hear you moaning.”

Sherlock covers his face and John watches in amusement as Sherlock blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. John laughs and presses his nose under Sherlock’s fingers so he can kiss his lips and his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he assures.

Sherlock groans piteously, “Easy for you to say, your parents aren't hearing you lose your virginity.”

At that, John feels himself blushing, this is crazy. “We shouldn’t do this here,” he murmurs. “Even though it physically pains me to even think it.  What was I thinking?” he mutters more to himself than to Sherlock. “This is your first time and we’re getting off like randy teenagers. I’m fucking selfish.”

“No,” Sherlock groans at him.  “John, please, I’ll be quiet. I promise.”  Sherlock buries his nose in John’s neck and whispers, “Please, John. I need you.”

And John would be lying if he said those words didn’t go straight to his cock.  “I wasn’t saying no because I thought you couldn’t be quiet,” John murmurs, stroking his hands along Sherlock’s perfectly smooth skin. “I was saying no because I thought it would be better for you if we waited until we got home.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “I need you now,” he pleads. “Then you can show me when we get home how wrong I was to want to do this here.”

John shudders, “You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters. But he rolls the two of them so they are on their sides facing one another and tucks Sherlock’s face in the crook of his shoulder as he reaches down and strokes his cock. Sherlock lets out a soft, “Uuhhn,” sound that makes John’s own coak throb.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmurs as John starts stroking him, “John,” he gasps, his voice light and breathy and John realizes that he really gets off on the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips.  “Uuhhn,” Sherlock cries again as John continues to stroke him. 

“Shh,” John reminds him. “I love the noises you make, I really do, but you have to be quiet.”

Sherlock nods even as he whimpers, his arms wrap around John more tightly and he buries his face further in John’s skin, his mouth moving over the scar from where John has been shot as he whimpers and cries out.  

“That’s it,” John encourages, feeling Sherlock’s body shaking in his arms, his hips stuttering as he tried to work his cock in and out of the channel John’s fist provides. “That’s it, beautiful. You’re incredible,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock cries out into John’s flesh and his fingers clench against John’s back and John is sure there will be nail marks there tomorrow. “You’re so perfect, Sherlock. I love you,” John murmurs softly.

Sherlock starts making soft, high noises every time his cock presses through John’s fist.  “Uunh, John, oh please,” he whimpers. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, please.”

John holds Sherlock closer and moves his hand over Sherlock’s cock faster and squeezes a bit tighter as he gets to the head, fighting the cramp in his forearm and wrist. “I’ve got you,” John murmurs. Sherlock shudders and he lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a wail even though he muffles it in John’s shoulder.

“John, John,” Sherlock pants, “Oh, John, I-” he starts, then his fingers spasm against John’s shoulders, “Oh, I love you,” he gasps before his entire body goes rigid and he comes. His teeth clamp down on John’s shoulder and he cries out.

John continues stroking Sherlock through it, “I love you, too,” he murmurs softly.  “That's it, beautiful. You’re perfect,” he whispers as he strokes the other man’s cock until it is soft and he’s stopped spurting come.

John moves a bit to let Sherlock lie on his back to recover from what seemed like a very intense orgasm but Sherlock whimpers and wraps his long limbs around John, “Don’t go,” he whispers.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” John replies, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.  I’ve got you.” John presses a sweet kiss to Sherlock’s curls. “I love you so much.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his lips slick along John’s skin. John rocks him a bit and continues to press kisses to his curls, giving him the time he needs to come down, to process.  

“That’s it,” John whispers as Sherlock’s grip slackens a little, “That’s it. Alright?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods against his shoulder but still doesn’t speak. John relaxes his grip a bit and settles himself in to hold Sherlock comfortably.

After a while longer, Sherlock exhales against John’s skin, “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” John replies simply. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s curls and leaves it at that, because it is the truth and he wouldn’t mind if Sherlock lost it every time they have sex.

 “I don’t know what came over me,” Sherlock murmurs but makes no move to pull away.

“Hormones, mostly,” John says with a chuckle. “It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s flattering actually.”

“Are you always going to call me sweetheart?” Sherlock asks and John can feel his nose wrinkling against his shoulder.

“Do you not like it?”

“No,” Sherlock says quickly, “No, I do like it. But I liked,” he pauses and clears his throat.

“What?” John prompts, “What do you like, love?”  he asks, thinking he would give Sherlock anything.

“I like it when you call me love,” Sherlock murmurs.

John grins into his curls, “Love it is, then.”

Sherlock sighs and presses into John again, “John?” he asks.

“Yeah Sherlock?”

“Can I...” Sherlock swallows and John wonders what he wants that he feels nervous about asking for. “Can I touch you?” 

John’s breath hitches, “Do you want to?” he asks his heart thudding wildly in his chest at the thinks of Sherlock’s hands on him. 

Sherlock nods, “But I don’t...” he starts, “I’m not sure...” he huffs impatiently.  “Will you tell me what you like?”

John groans, “You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to Sherlock’s temple.  

“Do you often dream of teaching people how to get you off?” Sherlock mutters sarcastically.

But to be honest, John loves teaching people things about sex; he loves sharing new things with people, acquainting them with the pleasures their own bodies held for them and the pleasures they can give others.

“Of course you do,” Sherlock says and John could practically hear the eye roll.  “I wouldn’t have guessed you had a virgin kink.”

“I don’t have a virgin kink,” John says, trying to keep his voice mild.  “I just like exploring new things with people.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Sherlock asks, sitting up and pushing John over so he’s laid out on his back.  He wraps his fingers around John’s cock, it feels exquisite. “Exploring new things?” 

“Yes,” John replies breathily.  “Just another adventure for the two of us.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock murmurs, his fingers ghosting up and down John’s cock. 

“But you love me,” John counters.

“I do,” Sherlock replies with a dramatic sigh.

John grins at him, “Kiss me,” he implores.  

Sherlock smirks back at him, “I can do that.” Then he leans in and he presses his lips to John’s once more and John revels in the way their lips feel pressed together. But the real goal of kissing Sherlock has been to get him to focus more on what his lips are doing and less on what his hands are up to. Sherlock’s hand starts to grip a bit more firmly around John’s shaft as he strokes him until he is stroking at a steady pace.

John draws back from the kiss, “That feels amazing,” he whispers and Sherlock glances down in surprise at his fingers.  John grins at him, “See, you don’t really need too much encouragement, you’ve got this.”

Sherlock looks up at him with a devilish glint in his eye, “Are you better at being quiet than I am?”

“I’ve probably had a good deal more practice,” John replies warily.

But before he has time to ask why Sherlock wants to know, Sherlock is sliding down his body, wrapping John’s shaft in a tight fist as he leans in and flicks his tongue against the head of John’s cock. Then he draws back and pulls his tongue back in his mouth as though he’s tasting. “Fucking hell,” John murmurs, his cock twitching in Sherlock’s grasp. 

Sherlock looks up at him under his fringe, his eyes wide and completely gorgeous, “Teach me,” he murmurs, leaning back in and tentatively licking around the crown.

John curses again and tilts his head back on the mattress so he isn’t staring at those eyes for a moment as he fights to regain a bit of composure. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, “You push every single one of my buttons and I’m not sure if you're trying or if it’s just who you are.”

Sherlock flicks his tongue over the head of John’s cock, “Probably a little of both,” he murmurs but it comes out muffled and the vibrations feel incredible.

John’s fingers tangle themselves in Sherlock’s curls and he looks down at the other man, “Right.  You really can’t go wrong with a blow job as long as you don’t use teeth. Close your lips around the head of my cock and give it a little suck.”

Without a word Sherlock does just that, his lips slide down the head and he sucks, like John’s cock is a lolly.  Sherlock groans around his mouthful and his tongue moves up to lick around the head inside of his mouth.

“That’s,” John exhaled shakily as Sherlock applies a bit more suction, “That’s fantastic,” he whispers.  “Use your hand to stroke whatever part of my cock you don’t have in your mouth and rub along the underside of my shaft with your tongue.”  It isn’t a moment before Sherlock is obeying and John is fighting the instinct to press into Sherlock’s mouth.

He strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and watches as Sherlock’s eyes drift closed in pleasure, Sherlock groans low in his throat and John’s hips stuttered off the bed.  

“Sorry,” he whispers as he drops his hips back to the mattress. He pants and counts to ten in his head. He really doesn’t want to scare the other man off of blowjobs.  

Sherlock pulls back and John has to fight back a pathetic whimper, “John?” Sherlock asks in that peculiar kind of voice he has when he has a genuine question. 

“Hmm?” John murmurs back, sitting up a bit to look down at his counterpart who has taken up stroking his cock again in the absence of his mouth. 

“Can I put more of you in my mouth?” he asks. “Or does the rest not matter? Is it more pleasurable to have the head in my mouth while the rest of your penis is in my hand?”

“You can absolutely put more of my cock in your mouth,” John says, his cock throbbing at the thought.  “Just be careful not to hurt yourself, I’ve had very few partners who haven’t had their gag reflex triggered.”

“I don’t have a gag reflex,” Sherlock murmurs, his mouth slipping down to cover the head of John’s cock again. 

“Did you just say you don’t have a gag reflex?” John asks, endless possibilities and fantasies unfolding in his mind. 

Sherlock pulls off, “I can swallow swords,” he replies, stroking John’s cock in his fist once again. 

“What?” John asks dumbly.

Sherlock huffs, “You heard me. I can swallow swords. It was for a case, I had to go undercover at a circus once.”

“You’re incredible,” John murmurs, his fingers stroking through Sherlock’s curls.  

Sherlock’s eyes go soft as he looks at John, “Do you think so?”

John nods and brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Even after all this time?  After all we’ve been through, all I’ve put you through?” Sherlock asks softly, looking away from John.  

“Yes,” John murmurs in reply.  “I always have and I’ve no doubt I always will.”  Sherlock stares up at him for a moment and John can’t help the words that come out of his mouth, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock replies. Then he blinks and looks back down at John’s erection which is still in his fist, “Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, looking embarrassed. 

“It’s fine,” John promises, “I’m not 15 anymore.”

Sherlock snorts and lets his lips slide down John’s cock. He stays around the head for a few minutes, sucking and flicking his tongue against the flesh then he starts bobbing his head a bit, sliding up and down the top third of John’s cock and John groans softly.  “Loose on the way down, suction on the way back up,” he whispers. Sherlock obeys and it feels like heaven. 

“Your mouth,” John murmurs around a tiny groan.  

Sherlock pulls back and smirks up at him, “Quiet,” he reprimands. 

John nods, “You feel fantastic.”

Sherlock grins and slides back down John’s cock, bobbing his head a few times before he starts to slide lower and lower. John bites down hard on his lower hip and focused his entire will on keeping himself still.

And then he feels his cock brush the back of Sherlock’s throat and he almost loses it right then and there. Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise and John realizes as he angles his head differently that he is irritated he hasn’t managed to get John’s entire cock down his throat.  

But Sherlock is nothing if not persistent, he tilts his head and John feels his cock sliding down the back of Sherlock’s throat. “Fuck,” John gasped, “Oh fucking hell, Sherlock.” His fingers spasm against Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock looks up at him, obviously quite pleased with himself. Sherlock slides off and takes a few gasping breaths, keeping the head of John’s cock in his mouth. “Are you alright?” John asks, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock doesn’t deign to respond and suddenly he is sliding back down on John’s cock, much more quickly than the last time, and then John feels the muscles of Sherlock’s throat contract around the head of his cock as he swallows and John loses it. “I’m going to come,” he warns, tugging at Sherlock’s curls to get him to pull off.

Sherlock, being the stubborn arse that he is didn’t move, merely swallows again and then emits a low groaning noise that vibrates John to the very core of his being. As he comes, Sherlock pulls back slightly, breathing through his nose and stroking the root of John’s cock with his fist.

He keeps it up until John is squirming with sensitivity. “Fuck,” John murmurs.

Sherlock takes it as his cue to slide off his cock and move up to the top of the bed, flopping down beside John, still breathing heavily.  

John turns his head to look at Sherlock and after a moment Sherlock does the same. They grin at each other for a moment then John says, “You’re fantastic. That was completely incredible.” 

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“Kiss me,” John requests, “I can’t move yet.”

Sherlock chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that resonated in John’s bones.  “Spoiled,” he murmurs even as he rolls to press his lips to John’s.

John cups his face in his palm and kisses him back, slow and ardently, “I could get used to being spoiled,” he murmurs as Sherlock pulls back and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock chuckles, “I can get used to this, too.”

John looks at him, stroking a finger along his cheek, rubbing the prickly stubble he finds there.  

“So, we’re going to do this?” Sherlock asks tentatively.

“What?” John asks, looking back up at Sherlock’s eyes from where he’d been watching his fingers stroke along Sherlock’s cheek.

“This,” Sherlock says vaguely, “Us.” 

“Yeah,” John says easily.  “Unless you don’t want to,” John adds, suddenly feeling a little self conscious.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t really..” he trails off, remembering all of the things he’d seen in the mirror the other day, “Sorry.  I didn’t ask, I just thought-”

Sherlock kisses him then and stops his bumbling, “Stop babbling,” Sherlock murmurs against his lips.  “I want this, I’ve wanted this for years. I just wasn’t sure you wanted me.” 

“Are you crazy?” John asks. “Of course I want you.”

Sherlock snuggles down into his arms, resting his head on John’s shoulder.  “I’m not always going to do this right,” he mutteres.

“No,” John agrees, “Neither will I. But we’ll do our best and we’ll be the us that everyone has always thought we were anyway.”

Sherlock snorts, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more short chapter to come tomorrow. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, friends. Enjoy!

The next morning John is awoken by soft kisses being pressed to his cheeks and nose and forehead. He scrunches his nose for a moment, then tilts his head so Sherlock’s lips fall on his with a pleased hum.  

“Good morning,” Sherlock whispers.

John’s eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice; their room is still dark, the sun hasn’t risen yet. “What time is it?” John asks around a yawn.

“5:23.” Sherlock replies.

“It’s early,” John comments as Sherlock brushes his nose along his cheek and jaw, brushing it behind his ear before mouthing at John’s earlobe.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock murmurs, breathing hotly against John’s ear.  

John’s cock gives a twitch of interest and Sherlock moves to get a better angle from which to attack John’s ear.  The moving presses Sherlock’s erection against John’s hip and John groans, reaching down so he can stroke his fingers teasingly along Sherlock’s cock.   

“John,” Sherlock groans against his ear and John shudders.

“Yes?” John asks, aiming for an innocent tone but missing by a mile because of the huskiness in his own voice.

“Shower with me,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Excuse me?” John asks, that was not at all what he’d expected Sherlock to ask.

“Shower,” Sherlock starts, leaning up to press his lips to John's, “With,” another kiss, “Me.”

“Yesterday you wouldn’t even let me come in to use the loo while you showered because you were afraid your parents would think we were having shower sex. And today you want to actually have shower sex.”

“It’s early,” Sherlock says, his hips rolling against John’s thigh to press his erection against him. “No one’s awake yet. And my skin is itchy from my ejaculate. I’d thought about getting out of bed and showering by myself before you woke up but I wanted to see you wake up. And I has another erection that I was rather hoping you might take care of for me. The best solution seemed to be to wake you up and make you shower with me.  And then I started imagining what it would be like to have you in the shower with me; the way your skin will feel wet and slick, the steam rising around us, our bodies pressed together,” Sherlock groans, he’s humping John’s leg in earnest at this point and John would be lying if he says it isn’t fucking hot.

“You’re amazing,” John groans.  “Yeah, alright. Come on,” he says, pulling Sherlock out of the bed and tossing a dressing gown at him before grabbing his own. He takes Sherlock's hand in his shushes his giggles (which he can’t help but find incredibly endearing) as they sneak down the hallway. When they get to the bathroom John tugs him inside and closes the door. He’s barely drawn the lock when Sherlock is pressing him back against the door.

It’s been forever since someone has made him feel this young; since someone has reminded him what it’s like to be head over heels stupid in love with someone, to not be able to keep your hands off of someone else. John realizes it’s probably because this is Sherlock’s first time experiencing all of this and he holds him all the tighter for it.

He lets Sherlock kiss and grope him for a long moment before spinning them, flipping their positions to pin Sherlock against the door.

Sherlock whimpers and slumps back, it seems that John’s body is the only thing holding him up. John kisses him slowly, deeply, drawing lovely whimpers from Sherlock’s throat. He strokes his left hand through Sherlock’s wild curls and Sherlock shudders in response.  

 He holds him there for long moments, taking immense joy in how soft and open Sherlock is. Eventually he draws back and strokes his knuckles along Sherlock’s cheekbone until his eyes flutter open.

”I love you,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“I love you, too,” he says before pulling back far enough to turn them once more. “Shower,” John murmurs, pushing Sherlock steadily backwards toward said bathroom fixture until he can turn on the water. While the water warms up John runs his hands all over Sherlock’s body as he kisses him some more and Sherlock squirms, pressing their bodies together and scraping nails down John’s back.     

John tilts his head so he can suck another bruise on Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock gasps, his head tilts instinctively to give John room to move and his fingers move up to hold John’s mouth to his neck. “I love your neck,” John growls into his smooth skin and Sherlock moans breathily in response.

 “I’m more glad of that fact than I anticipated I would be,” Sherlock says with a groan.

“Good,” John murmurs drawing back to look at the bruises he’s left all over Sherlock’s neck, thinking again that Sherlock is making him act like a teenager.  

He pulls away from Sherlock to check the temperature of the water and groans as Sherlock’s hands moved to massage his arse, “You will be the death of me,” John murmurs as he pulls the lever to make the water come out of the shower head.  

He steps in and tugs Sherlock in after him, Sherlock squeaks (that’s the only word to describe it) when the water hits him and throws himself against the back wall of the tub. “John that water is scalding,” he complains. 

Truthfully, John loves hot showers, it came from going without them when he was in Afghanistan, it had been the thing he’d missed most. And you’d think that living somewhere as ungodly hot as it is there would make you want to take a cold shower but you’d be wrong. “Sorry,” John whispers, adjusting the temperature and drawing Sherlock into his arms again.

Sherlock huffs but his body melts into John’s again. After a few minutes of kissing, John turns them so Sherlock’s back is to the shower head and he kneels at Sherlock’s feet.  He runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs, stroking the crease between thigh and groin with his thumbs. “You are so ridiculously beautiful,” he murmurs, looking up at Sherlock and brushing his own wet fringe from his eyes.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, staring down at the other man with huge eyes.    
  
"Alright?" John asks, pressing a kiss to his hipbone. He’s so thin and muscular, an Adonis carved from flesh and bones.  
  
"Yes," he whispers.  
  
"Can you be quiet enough not to wake up the whole household?" John teases.    
  
Sherlock nods seriously and John takes his cock into his mouth suckling at the tip and wiggling his tongue. Sherlock's hips roll a bit and John moves with him letting Sherlock press his cock minutely in and out of his mouth. He licks and sucks at Sherlock's cock, rolling his tongue and cupping the head with his tongue and simultaneously flicking over it.

“John, bloody fucking hell,” Sherlock moans and John is sure that he gets off on the sound of swear words on Sherlock's lips.

He sucks Sherlock's cock further into his mouth. It has been a ridiculously long time since he's given a blowjob and it takes him a few minutes to remember just how he'd managed to swallow cocks in the past. He starts bobbing his head, working his way lower and lower swallowing around his cock and working it constantly with his tongue. Sherlock's hands grip John's shoulders and his fingers dig into John's flesh as he groans and whimpers above him.

John sinks all the way down on Sherlock's cock, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock moans and his fingers scrabble for purchase at the wall.  He swallows around the head a few times before drawing back to breathe, then repeats the motion several times until Sherlock is literally crying out.

He pulls off and grins up at the other man, “You have to be quiet.” 

“Mycroft is the only one who sleeps on this floor and he's gone out for a run,” Sherlock manages through shuddering, panting breaths.

John grins at him, “I don't think the fact that we're upstairs is going to matter if you keep up the way you are.”

“I can't help it,” Sherlock whinges. “Your mouth is the best thing that has ever happened to me. It's amazing.”

“Says the man with no gag reflex,” John quips.

“You seem to manage just fine even with one,” Sherlock retorts. 

“Lots of practice,” John says with a wink, even as he uses his hands to start turning Sherlock's hips, “Turn around,” he encourages.

“Why?” Sherlock asks curiously even as he obeys.

John cant help but be flattered by the trust Sherlock is showing, “You'll like it, I promise,” John assures. “But if you don't, you can tell me and we'll stop. Lean your arms on the wall,” John instructs, “Then you can muffle how loud you are.”

“That's clever, John,” Sherlock says.  

“You don't have to sound so surprised,” John says as he reaches for the soap and covers his fingers. Then he slips them between Sherlock’s buttocks and rubs them over Sherlock’s hole. John’s own cock throbs in response as he touches Sherlock in this place where no one else has ever touched him.

Sherlock cries out, his voice carrying even though his arm is covering his mouth and he attempts to spread his legs further apart which is no easy feat in this bathtub.  

John continues to rub at that lovely pucker, letting his fingers slide forward occasionally to slip against Sherlock’s perineum before sliding back to touch his hole again. John hadn’t been wrong, it seems that he loves the attention John is giving; his hips twitch and press back against John’s fingers in an obvious bid to make those fingers press inside of him.  

He has no intention of breaching Sherlock with his fingers, however, soap and water is no substitution for lube.  But it seems Sherlock either doesn’t know that or doesn’t care. John grabs the flannel off the edge of the tub and wipes between Sherlock’s buttocks, making sure there weren’t any subs left; the next part won’t be terribly pleasant if he leaves any soap there.  

Sherlock turns and looks at John over his shoulder, “Are you really just washing me?” he asks with an eyebrow raised. 

John chuckles, “Not really. Turn around, have a little faith in me.” 

Sherlock huffs but does as John bid. He grins and spreads Sherlock’s buttocks with his thumbs, giving himself a clear view of Sherlock’s pucker. Sherlock squirms under his hands and let out a soft whimper, obviously feeling a bit embarrassed and John can’t help but find it endearing. After a moment he puts Sherlock out of his misery and leans forward to flick his tongue against Sherlock’s anus.

Sherlock’s body jerks like he’s been shocked and he moans long and loud again before turning to look at John over his shoulder once again. “Is that your tongue?” he asks incredulously.

John chuckles, “Yes.”

Sherlock stares at him with wide eyes for a moment and John wonders what thoughts are going through that stunning mind. When Sherlock is quiet and just continued to stare at him, John says, “Can I do it again?”

“Do you want to?” Sherlock asks in befuddlement.

“Yes,” John replies easily, leaving off the bit where he thinks if he hadn’t wanted to he wouldn’t have started in the first place. “Do you want me to?”

Sherlock nods. 

“Good,” John says with a grin, “Then turn back around and brace yourself.”

Sherlock gives him one last calculating glance before he turns and faces the wall once more, leaning forward to rest his head on his forearms. John pulls apart Sherlock’s buttocks once more and leans in again, he presses his tongue to that flesh and Sherlock groans.

 “John,” Sherlock whimpers, “That...” he pauses to moan as John swirls his tongue around that pucker, “I...” another whimper as John flicked his tongue against his flesh again.  “That’s amazing,” Sherlock whimpers. 

John continues to lick that flesh until Sherlock’s body is quivering and then he presses his tongue inside of his hole.  Sherlock cries out and John releases one of Sherlock’s buttocks so he can reach between Sherlock’s legs and fondle his balls. John thrusts his tongue in and out of Sherlock’s hole reaching as far as he can manage, reveling in the way Sherlock is shuddering and whimpering. He presses his fingers to Sherlock’s perineum and with a strangled shout Sherlock is coming.

He shudders and he is all but sobbing into his arms. John continues to thrust his tongue in and out of his body until Sherlock has stopped rocking back toward his face. Then he draws back and presses kisses up Sherlock’s spine as he stands. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and lavishes kisses on his neck and shoulders; he holds him close and lets Sherlock come down from that high.

Sherlock groans and turns in John’s arms, he buries his face in John’s neck and the two of them let the water wash over them. John reaches over and grabs the bottle of shampoo from the shelf, working it into a lather before rubbing it into Sherlock’s curls, massaging at his scalp. 

“John,” Sherlock groans.

“Careful or your parents are going to think you’re already up for round two,” John says with a chuckle.  

Sherlock groans. “That’s not funny,” he says but he’s smiling against John’s shoulder.

“Just teasing, I’m sure they couldn’t hear you from downstairs. Tip your head back,” John requests, rinsing the suds out before working in some conditioner. 

“This is the second best thing you've ever done,” Sherlock murmurs, stretching his neck and luxuriating in the scalp massage.

“What’s the first?” John asks with a laugh, assuming it is probably something practical like saving Sherlock’s life or something sentimental like finding him in the first place. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, “Everything you've done with your tongue since we got in this shower.” John laughs but Sherlock continues, “You have a highly expressive tongue, it’s always poking out and wetting your lips, and doing all manner of things. It’s exceptionally distracting. But I think that is going to be a lot worse in terms of distraction now,” Sherlock says. He leans down and kisses John and John kisses him back, stretching his body along Sherlock’s and subsequently rubbing his erection against Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock draws back and his hand skates down John’s body until it reached his cock, “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  “I got distracted.”

John laughs and presses his lips against Sherlock’s again, his breath catching as Sherlock strokes up his cock and twists around his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs.  

Sherlock’s hum doesn’t sound entirely convinced, “What do you want?”

“So many things,” John replies, tangling his fingers in the damp curls at the base of Sherlock’s skull.  “Turn around,” he says after a moment of contemplation.

Sherlock kisses him once more but then does as John asked, presenting his back to John.  

“You’re stunning,” John murmurs, trailing his fingers feather light down Sherlock’s back, tracing some scars before coming to rest over Sherlock's bottom. “And you have a fantastic arse.” He cups the globes of Sherlock’s arse in his palms and kneads it for a few moments.

Sherlock groans and John takes pity on him, “Spread you legs a bit,” he requests. Without a thought or complaint Sherlock does exactly that and John marvels at how obedient Sherlock is like this. He takes a bar of soap and lathers his hands with it before spreading the suds between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock moans, “John, that feels amazing,” he murmurs as John’s fingers trailed lightly over Sherlock’s balls and perineum. 

“You are deliciously sensitive,” John replies. He strokes that skin a while longer because he wants to and because Sherlock is gasping and wiggling every time his hands trail along his balls.  Eventually he pulls back and strokes his own cock to make it sudsy and slick, then he presses it between Sherlock’s thighs. “Close your legs,” John murmurs in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shudders and obeys, his hips bucking when he feels John’s cock between his legs as though it were his own being squeezed in that tight wet heat. “This is a brilliant idea,” Sherlock says with a groan, his head tilting back so his back arches and he can rest on John’s shoulder. 

John hums in agreement and starts thrusting his cock leisurely between Sherlock’s muscular thighs, his hands which has initially been holding Sherlock’s hips steady slip up Sherlock’s body until he can reach his nipples.  Sherlock hisses and his hips stutter hard against John, “You’re beautiful,” John murmurs, stroking Sherlock’s abdomen and then moving back up to pinch at his nipples once more, circling his nipples with his thumbs then rolling the nubs between his thumb and forefinger. 

Sherlock arches into his touch and his hips roll a bit faster and he moans wantonly. “John,” Sherlock whimpers, “Touch me,” he begs.

“I am, sweetheart,” John murmurs, he releases Sherlock’s nipples so he can rub his palms along Sherlock’s abdomen.

“No,” Sherlock moans breathily, taking John’s left hand in his and dragging it down to his cock, “Touch me,” he whispers again, wrapping John’s fingers around his half hard cock.

John groans, it has been years since he'd been with a man who could get it up that quickly again. “You are incredible,” John groans, leaning in to nibble at Sherlock’s shoulder and suck bruises into his flesh even as he starts to stroke Sherlock's cock in counter time with his motions. 

Sherlock cries out and his hips stutter and John groans at the way his thighs clench tighter around his cock. "Fuck that's amazing," John murmurs into his counterpart's skin.  
  
Sherlock nods, his entire body shaking. John can’t help but think how sweet Sherlock is, how soft and precious. He talks big about love being weakness but he's obviously been starved for affection all these years.

“I love you,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s skin, thinking it didn’t have to be this way. He and Sherlock could have been doing this for years if he hadn’t been so blind. He makes a silent vow that he will make it up to him.

“I,” Sherlock gasps as John’s hand squeezes tighter and works him faster, “John, I love you, too.”

John adds a twist of his wrist to the end of his stroke and Sherlock is over the edge, coming with a strangled cry as every muscle in his body contracts around John. John presses his cock through the tight channel of Sherlock’s thighs twice more and he is over the edge too. He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder and gasped as his own body shudders it’s release. 

He lets his hands drift up and wrap around the other man’s torso, the both of them come down from their orgasm together. Eventually Sherlock turns around once more and John wraps his arms around the other man’s back instead of his front. They kisses languidly for a few minutes before John draws back to brush the wet curls out of Sherlock’s face, “Your refractory period is stunning and I hate you.”

Sherlock laughs, “What?” 

“I can’t tell you the last time I had two orgasms in under an hour, I must have been 17. I wanked myself stupid one weekend when my parents went away for a trip and Harry was away at school.” 

Turning to shut off the water, Sherlock glances at John over his shoulder, “Well, I’ve had tight reigns on my libido for years. It’s probably trying to make up for lost time.”

They climb out of the shower and try to dry one another off but end up just getting tangled in each other arms. They give up and settle for lingering kisses as they dried themselves, when they’re done John takes Sherlock’s hand in his, thinking that since it is only 6:30 he might be able to convince Sherlock to crawl back in bed with him for a little longer.  

But the suggestion dies on his lips as he opens the door and they almost run into a red-faced, and sweaty Mycroft. Mycroft’s nose wrinkles and John knows without a doubt he is reading exactly what they had just done by whatever it is that Holmes’ use to deduce things. 

Mycroft sighs, “My congratulations on the culmination of your relationship but did you really have to have intercourse in the bathroom? Other people use that space too,” he complains.

John glances at Sherlock who has blushed red as a beet, he gives his hand a little squeeze, “Don’t worry, the shower is a great place for sex, rinses all evidence straight down the drain. You should try it some time.” 

Sherlock snorts and John gives his hand a tug, watching in amusement as Mycroft rubs his hands over his eyes. “Oh, and by the way, Mycroft,” John says, turning to look at him once more, “Sex really doesn’t alarm him,” he says with a wink.

Sherlock bursts into giggles again and it’s all the affirmation John needs. He tugs Sherlock into their room and presses him back onto the mattress and he kisses him. He kisses him until every trace of tension has slipped from Sherlock's body and his arms are looped around John's neck.  
  
"I love you," he murmurs when he draws back. "Tell me you're not sick of hearing it."  
  
"I'm not sick of hearing it. Honestly, it's a little hard for me to believe that this isn't all some elaborate dream produced by drugs," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes still closed. "When I woke up I was worried it was all just a dream. But we were still naked so I is fairly confident last night had happened."  
  
John laughs, he feels so ridiculously happy and alive. "Marry me," he murmurs before he can think better of it.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asks, his eyes opening to look at John.  
  
"Marry me," John says again, even though his heart is pounding wildly in his chest at the thought that this might be moving too fast. “You're my best friend and the love of my life. I know who I am without you and I never want to be that man again."  
  
"I..." Sherlock starts before he swallows and traces John's cheek with his thumb. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Completely," John says, turning his head to kiss Sherlock's palm. "What will it really change except that we'll wear rings?"  
  
"You're insane," Sherlock says, laughing.  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
Sherlock smiles at him, as bright as the sun, "Yes."  
  
"You're fantastic,” John murmurs and then he kisses him again.  “Wait until we tell your parents."

Sherlock groans, “Let’s just elope.  Mummy is going to insist on such extravagant things.”

“Good,” John murmurs.  “She should, it’s the only wedding you’re ever going to have.”

Sherlock opens his eyes again and stares up at John, “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“I just want it to be everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” John murmurs, brushing his nose along Sherlock’s.

“How do you know I’ve dreamed of anything at all?”

John grins at him, “You can’t fool me, Sherlock Holmes.  Look at the way you preen when I praise you, look at the way you soak up physical affection like a plant soaks up water in the desert. Look at how you love this. You’ve dreamed of getting married, you’ve dreamed of someone to love you, of a family, of a life lived together. Tell me I’m wrong,” John dares him.

Sherlock swallows, “You’re not wrong but I’d given up on it. I love our life together and I never wanted to compromise what we had for the chance at something more.”

“I’m a little slow,” John says with a chuckle.  “Don’t keep things from me, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, “Kiss me,” he whispers.

John obliges him then just as he will for the rest of their lives.


End file.
